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liebgotts-lovergirl · 1 year

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Fire On Fire: Chapter 22

(Ch. 21) ... (Ch. 1)

II Gallery II Symbol Guide II

Summary: A closed reduction is painful but not as painful as a broken heart.

WARNINGS: Description of Injury Correction

Taglist: @latibvles @softguarnere @brassknucklespeirs @mccall-muffin @lieutenant-speirs @emmythespacecowgirl @holdingforgeneralhugs @parajumpboots @hxad-ovxr-hxart @indigo-luvers @ax-elcfucker-blog @chaosklutz @mads-weasley @vibing-away @eightysix-baby

Contemporary: October 25th, 1944. Driel, Netherlands.

“Genie, how long do I have to stay like this?” Alix groaned as she stared up at the sky with her knee bent while the meticulous medic inspected her ankle yet again.

“My leg’s starting to cramp.”

"Jus’ hang in there, cher,” he soothed as he cautiously applied a bit of light pressure to the area once again, causing her to hiss in pain as he examined her range of motion.

“You don’ want me rushing this.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Alix caught a glimpse of Joe nearby, pacing back and forth like an anxious guard-dog, his forehead creased with worry lines as he took a hasty drag of his cigarette.

"Whaddya need, Doc?" he asked as Roe assessed her ankle one final time. “What can I do?”

“You already asked him that,” Alix snapped, eyes narrowed. “Three times.”

“Well ‘scuse me for being fuckin' worried about you,” Joe shot back.

The heartbroken spy was about to tell him exactly where he could shove his false “worry” when Eugene's slightly modulated voice cut her off, giving Joe an instruction seemingly from the depths of Alix’s own heart.

"Hold her hand."

Alix practically choked on air.

"What?!"

The spy began struggling to get up but the medic stopped her with a gentle touch to her shoulder and lowered his voice so only she could hear.

"I ain't exactly jazzed about it either, cher," he said softly and with the mournful look in his beautiful blue eyes, she didn't doubt it.

"But puttin' personal feelings aside, you gonna need somebody to grab onto so you don' pass out."

Alix scoffed inwardly.

"Putting personal feelings aside," he'd said.

As if there had ever been a time when Gene put his feelings anything but dead last.

"I'd rather be unconscious than touch him," she muttered bitterly and perhaps it was his guilty conscience or perhaps it was genuine concern for her well-being, but either way, Gene wouldn't hear any more of her protestations.

“Jus' till the reduction's done,” he pleaded as he helped Alix out of her jump jacket, which she would need to bite on for the pain.

“Mais, if I could find Spina, I'd hold your hand myself an' let him do it, but he ain't close."

Alix chewed on her bottom lip, glancing around the clearing as she weighed her options.

Don had gone in search of a German Luger for his nephew and Skip had gone with him to ensure he wouldn’t die.

The pair had offered to carry her but she didn’t want to encumber them.

The woods were dangerous enough as it was without adding another load to their packs.

So, they had gone, leaving Alix with Gene, Joe, and her own thoughts, surrounded by a group of relative strangers.

As much as she hated to admit it, Joe was looking like the only option so reluctantly, she relented.

“Fine, whatever, let’s get it over with.”

With a satisfied nod, Roe began assembling the necessary components of the splint set and Joe knelt beside her.

Shivering slightly in her camisole, she tried to pretend he wasn't there, staring straight ahead into the tangle of branches and shadows that comprised the surrounding forest.

“Hey, you okay, Ziskeit?" Joe inquired, the familiar gravel of his voice softening around the foreign word.

Zees.

Zee-skite.

There was something comforting about the way it seemed to roll so easily off his tongue like a reflex, like a prayer.

Alix shook her head to clear it.

Remember who he is, she told herself, noting the ink-stains that seemed to mar his fingertips.

Ink stains from the letter he had been writing earlier, no doubt a reply to the one that haunted her memory.

Remember all the lies.

She wondered vaguely if he called Millicent that word back in California.

Zeeskite.

Probably just another recycled line.

But even still, when he slowly reached for her hand, she couldn’t bring herself to pull away and as he laced their fingers together, a flurry of butterflies erupted in her stomach.

Their fingers interlocked perfectly, like they were made for each other.

"You can squeeze too, y'know," Joe added, giving her shoulder an affectionate brush with his own. "If ya need to, that is."

Alix fought to keep her face neutral and inwardly cursed the stubborn heat creeping up her neck and cheeks anyway.

"I don't wanna hurt you though," she squeaked but Joe just chuckled.

"Break my fuckin' hand for all I care, Zees," he joked with an easy shrug and his laugh felt almost… familiar, as if she’d heard it a million times before.

But he sobered quickly, using his thumb to lightly caress the back of her hand.

The blinding sunlight light up each ray of honey-gold in his hypnotic brown eyes, creating a dazzling shimmer almost like the flicker of a flame.

"Seriously though, this ain't about me." His forehead was etched with worry lines.

"You're the one who's gonna be in pain so you fuckin' squeeze as tight as you need to, okay? Don't worry 'bout me; I can take it."

He was being so considerate that it actually hurt and she found herself wishing he would've just been an asshole. It was easier to remember to hate him that way.

"Don't," Alix mumbled, the frigid ache in her chest returning as she noticed the ink-stains on his skin for a second time and she very nearly pulled her hand away.

"Don't do that."

Joe's brows scrunched in confusion.

"Do what?"

There was no malice in his voice anymore when he spoke, the sharp edge from earlier seemed to have evaporated with the morning mist.

It was an honest question that deserved an honest answer.

Could she give him that?

Alix dropped her gaze, unable to look him in the eye as she answered, studying each blade of grass they were seated on instead like a coward.

Her voice sounded hollow, the words burning in her throat like sawdust as she spoke:

"Don't pretend to care about me."

She would've rather endured a hundred interrogations than take comfort in his lies, especially now.

There was a heavy silence for a moment as Joe registered her comment, followed by a small sigh as his chest seemed to deflate.

"Christ, Zees, you think I'm pretending?"

He wasn't angry, although she wished he would be.

If he just shouted at her then she could return fire and the dislike wouldn't feel so goddamn one-sided.

But he didn't treat her like he did the men of the company. He might bristle at her accusations, might even snap as he rose to her bait, but she had never once heard him truly yell in anger, not at her.

For a man with such a reputed temper that prisoners would slouch to avoid his gaze, it was almost unfathomable.

An unexpectedly soft hand on her arm roused her from her thoughts.

It was Eugene, who gave her a wan smile.

“You ready, cher?”

"You're gonna be okay, Zees," Joe murmured with one last encouraging squeeze of her hand and Alix took a shaky breath before confirming her assent.

"I'm ready."

"Une…"

The medic tensed as he positioned one hand on her hind foot and the other on the lower part of her shin. Alix bit down on the sleeve of her jump jacket.

"Deux…"

There came a slight pressure to her ankle like a warning and she braced herself, leaning subconsciously against Joe's shoulder for comfort.

"Trois!”

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Nothing could have prepared her for the pain.

Feeling the pop of bones slamming back into place was like a thousand kitchen knives stabbing her nerves, like a roaring fire engulfing her ankle, needle-sharp sensation so intense that it was momentarily blinding.

Alix gripped Joe's hand so tightly that she lost feeling in her own as a strangled cry was ripped from her throat, fortunately muffled by the thick material of her jacket.

“Jesus Christ, Doc!” Joe snapped and Alix could feel the instinctive coil of his muscles, like a wildcat set to pounce as he rounded on Gene.

“Give her a second, will ya, you’re fuckin’ hurting her!"

The medic ignored him for a moment, focusing his energy instead on the first internal rotation of her ankle, causing Alix to groan in misery and squeeze Joe’s hand still tighter.

"Don' got no choice," the medic grunted apologetically, not even looking up from his work.

"Can’t stop now. Shoulda stayed at the aid station where they got anesthetic. But she almost done; Jus' got one more part of the reduc an' one more rotation."

"One more, Zees," Joe mumbled, releasing her hand and wrapping his arms around her like a protective blanket.

"Just one more. You’re doing real good."

“Une…"

Through the red fog of her misery, Alix could vaguely feel Gene readjusting his grip on her heel as he counted down and she sank back into Joe as she fought to remain conscious.

"Deux…"

The medic was beginning to apply pressure and feeling her tense in preparation, Joe pressed a kiss to the top of her head and began to gently smooth her hair in an attempt to offer comfort.

"Trois!”

"Dio Santo!" Alix swore, bolting upright as the final bone slid back into place with a pop, causing involuntary tears to slide down her blanched cheeks like rain.

"C’est tout," the medic announced a moment later, sitting back on his heels.

"The hard part's done. Now we jus' gotta keep it all in place."

As the medic positioned the wire splint against her foot, Alix managed to summon enough strength to slide herself out from under Joe’s arms.

She wanted nothing more than to lean back into him again, to let him hold her close, but she couldn’t…Not when she knew he would only be thinking of Millicent.

“It went good, cher,” Eugene praised as he began to wrap her ankle in protective bandages, oblivious to her conflicted thoughts.

"But don’ let me catch you walkin’ on this thing till it’s good an’ set, you got that? You need somethin’, you better be askin’ somebody to go get it.”

Great, Alix thought, watching forlornly as Eugene finished and began packing his remaining supplies into his bag.

She’d be stuck for at least an hour and she doubted Joe would miraculously decide to leave her alone.

“I gotta go make my rounds, cher, but I’ll be back, alright? Soon as I can.”

“Can I at least sit back on the log then, Genie?” she bargained and the medic nodded grudgingly as he stood up, thin lips twitching into a smile.

"Mais ya, as long as you're careful."

Scooping her up like he had before, Gene plopped her comfortably onto the fallen oak before giving her a lightning-quick peck on the cheek.

Alix had always imagined that the first kiss between two people would be magical like the ones in the novels she read.

When Heathcliff burst into Catherine’s room in Wuthering Heights and swept her up into his strong arms, planting a whirlwind of passionate kisses upon her, their love was like a force of nature.

But when Gene had kissed her cheek… No lightning strike, no giddy sparks like fireworks going off in her head.

Nothing at all except for a tiny twinge of guilt serving to only make her more confused.

This was what she had wanted, wasn’t it, what all her curiosity about the medic had led to?

Then why wasn’t she satisfied?

Why was she always searching for something she couldn’t find, something she wasn’t even sure existed?

But clearly Gene had been satisfied because when he stepped back, the tips of his ears were scarlet again and his half-mumbled "I'll see you around, cher” came out almost dazed.

He had just turned to leave when Joe jumped to his feet, stopping the medic by his elbow as he passed, and Alix held her breath as she awaited the seemingly inevitable conflict.

The medic froze in his tracks, the two men standing face to face.

Eugene was taller by a good 5 inches but even so, Alix had no doubt that Joe would gain the upper hand in a heartbeat.

But to her surprise, no conflict ensued.

"I- uh– just wanted to say thanks, Doc,” Joe said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Y'know, for takin' good care of my... of Alix."

Even so, Eugene eyed him warily.

"Lieb," he began, his tone cautious. "Jus' so you know, I'm not tryna-"

"Doesn't matter."

The medic raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"What?"

Joe exhaled slowly and he tried to muster up a smile but there was a flicker of pain just behind it.

When he spoke, there was a catch in his gravelly voice and the words were so quiet that Alix had to strain to hear them.

"If she's happy, I'm happy."

The spy distinctly saw Eugene's shoulders relax at his fellow trooper’s words and the Southerner gave him a polite nod before walking off, leaving Alix alone with the one person she had been trying to avoid.

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jaratedeguadalupe · 3 months

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what do you mean this isn't canon

#so so so SO tempted to make this into a fic #i'm not even joking #it doesn't even have to be practical espionage #it just needs to be spy pointing at a pot and asking where its hat is #is this funny to anyone else #don't answer that unless that answer is yes or you're getting blocked #tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 engineer #tf2 spy #engiespy #practical espionage

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sentrysapper · 9 days

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aloha-obi · 2 years

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I HC that the first time Bruce let Dick go on a ‘undercover mission’ it was for a class field trip to one of Lex Luthor’s tech facilities. Dick managed to bug his office, sabotage a top secret (potentially world ending) project and leave chocolate pudding on Lex’s favorite chair. Luthor definitely sat in it and ruined his favorite pants. Clark and Bruce were 100% both a nervous wreck during the entire thing. At the next gala, 10 year old Dick trolls Lex by eating chocolate pudding cups the whole time.

#batfam #someone write the fic #dick grayson #first undercover mission #Bruce and Clark are maybe freaking out the whole time #ready to go break walls and Luthor’s face if he even touches the kid #Dick’s field trip = espionage training #Bruce Wayne thinks 10 is old enough to spy #nightwing

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wangxianficrecs · 6 months

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Life as House by Terri Botta (Isilwath)

Life as a House

by Terri Botta (Isilwath) (@isilwath)

T, 55k, Wangxian

Summary: After Wei WuXian is proven innocent, Lan Zhan moves. Kay's comments: Based on the corporate espionage au over on @angstymdzsthoughts Wei Wuxian is sentenced for a crime he didn't commit and Lan Wangji watches and does nothing. Later, when Wei Wuxian is proven innocent, Lan Wangji finally manages to break free from the shackles of duty and obligation that have been holding him down all his life. He moves out and builds a house, for himself and he hopes, for Wei Wuxian and their son. This story works through the trauma the characters went through beautifully and for once, Wei Wuxian doesn't easily forgive and forget and rush back into Lan Wangji's arms. No, instead Lan Wangji has to work on it and himself and that makes the happy ending all worth it. Excerpt: Lan WangJi may or may not have opened an account with the same unaffiliated credit union the week after Wei WuXian’s trial and the guilty verdict. He may or may not have been siphoning off excess income into the account; just as much as he could risk without garnering any attention from Lan family members or employees who might take notice of large sums of money disappearing from the account he held at the Lan affiliated bank. He may or may not have opened an account for Lan Yuan, and been making regular deposits under the guise of “allowance.” He may or may not have managed to accumulate quite a sum of money that was completely out of the control or knowledge of his family, because he learned that anything could happen, and it was vital that he have access to funds that no one could take away from him. He may or may not be planning the defection of the decade. He wavers on it regularly, fighting down nausea and panic attacks, gasping for air, his heart pounding in his chest, until he can wrestle calm from the chaos that often consumes his thoughts. He is having one now, sitting in the sparse, impersonal studio apartment, ignoring the tea that neither of them have bothered to drink. He quells it with the reminder that he is doing this for his son. He is doing this for Sizhui.

pov lan wangji, modern setting, coporate espionage, angstymdzsthoughts, modern no powers, post-divorce, breaking up & making up, father-son relationship, families of choice, reconciliation, angst with a happy ending, lan wangji/wei wuxian get a happy ending, past abuse, recovery, abusive relationships

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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sees-writes · 9 months

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Writing fanfiction am I right

#horrific #painful #have to do more research into government espionage #fanfic authors #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfic writer #fanfic writing #ao3 #time travel fic #time travel fix it

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kizzyking · 4 months

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Catching up on mha and I'm curious why I never heard of this scene through the fandom. The aggressive bossy one following orders all perfectly while blindfolded? Idk. Did I miss it?

#like where is the increase in espionage fics?#bnha #mha #bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #also todoroki laughing was adorable

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jamiethebeeart · 6 months

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Sketches

#shuichi iguchi #shigaraki tomura #spinaraki #these were 2 unrelated sletches but then my brain starting brewing some thoughts #mainly an au where spinner is sent in as a spy (for???? not the heroes lmao) to get into Shigaraki's confidence which of course means #wink wonk bedroom activities ANYWAY spinner catches feelings and doesnt really want to inform on Shigaraki anymore and is feeling conflicted #about what he should do and shigaraki knows something is up with his maybe boyfriend but not what and just :))) angst and split loyalties #amd feeling torn in two directions #(i sya not heroes but the only group with enough prescence is the mla but thats not really their m.o. either so???? idk what group would #have the reach/influence to feel threatened by some upstart kid in the villain world and manipulate a member into taking this espionage job)#anyways ive got so many au ideas and not enough time to write a fic or 12 lmao #like the research + planning + plot points + writing + editing + energy to pull it off.... im tempted to dabble in it all again tbh #im a year behind the manga tho and still havent watched the last season so idk where characters have ended up #and id rather not write anything until i catch up (idk maybe horikoshi has revealed some fun/character specific info?)#here i am talking on + on in the tags. anywho if anyone wants to write a fic based on any of my posts feel free bc i probably never will

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coffee-writesthings · 5 months

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First kiss, a little drabble because I was feeling inspired by hozier's "Like Real People Do"

Cross-faction btw!

A rough day on the battlefield, with shared deaths on either side. Both RED and BLU were struggling to gain any real ground in what looked like it was going to definitely become a stalemate. Capture points were one of the worst sorts of things, in Dell's opinion-- having to move around all the time turned into so much work.

If he had to guess, it must have been similar for the other team's Spy. Though maybe, maybe that snake liked having something more to do. More things to sap, more places to go, more ways to catch someone off-guard.

It was thinking about things like this which caused death, after death, after death for him. This time though, he wasn't killed immediately. Instead, under the guise of invisibility-- definitely a cloak and dagger, rather than one of the other invis-watches, he held a knife just by his pulsing neck. The cold metal of his Big Earner could've felt like a peaceful respite from the heat, had it not been joined by a dark chuckle.

Unfortunately for Spy's attempt at intimidation, he'd had just about enough of this for one day. He clenched his jaw, breathing slowly so that he could say what he was about to, without making a fool out of himself.

"Aren't you tired?"

The knife's hold on him faltered. "Of what, exactly?"

"Killing people, running 'round without letting people see you, all of it."

"I could ask you the same question, laborer."

"Would you though? We're pitted against each other every day, in every way. How are we s'posed to care?"

"We… aren't."

"Then why do I find myself thinking about you. Why does your rat face fill my dreams? Why can't I get you out of my head?"

"You care about me?" he scoffed, taking the knife away from his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the shimmer of overused invisibility.

Actions were always something that came before words for Engineer. It was something passed down to him from the earliest age when he lived in Bee Cave, and something he'd keep living by until the day he really died. In a swift motion, he pulled out his destruction PDA, getting rid of his sentry. To hell with the objective.

"This is my gun," he displayed the plain weapon, notably not crackling for bloodshed. "it's not the Frontier Justice-- I'm not gonna kill you with a couple of bullets. Take it if you don't believe me."

"You can keep it. I don't need a shotgun." He clicked a button on his watch, revealing himself to the prying eyes of the other. "Why? Why would you leave yourself entirely prone?"

"There's just somethin' I need to get outta my head. Would you kiss me?"

"Would, or could?" His face was neutral, if a little curious. He didn't seem entirely against the idea.

"Please. Just once, to get it out of my system."

"And if I find that I like it?"

"That'd be one hell of a surprise."

He took a step forward, checking around for cameras-- or a pesky teammate who would interrupt them. "To hell with it." he ripped off his balaclava, revealing his face, and his hair. It was damp with sweat, but still managed to hang about just so, in a way that framed his face.

For moments, he found himself unable to figure out whether he was supposed to look away. In his train of thought he managed to forget how to breath, and how to look away. He kicked himself inside for it.

"You want this?" he confirmed with Spy.

He nodded with a little smirk. "You're getting very good at making a man feel safe, Mr. Conagher."

"Please, call me Dell."

"Okay then, Dell. Come here then. If I'm competing with your dreams, I should use my whole arsenal, no?"

A nervous laugh escaped him as he stepped forward to the other. An arm wrapped around to the small of his back, bringing him even closer-- their torsos pressed together, something neither party minded in the slightest. "Is this a good time to mention that I've never done this before?"

"Truly?"

"Yeah. Not like I could really get out anywhere, always had things to build, stuff I was workin' on."

"I'll make sure to set a high bar then."

He leaned his head forward and down, inviting for him to meet him in the middle-- something he had to go up on his tiptoes for. The hand holding him there was gently supportive, just present, as if he could fall otherwise. And sure, he might've, but not in the literal way.

His lips were so warm, so soft. The hand not on his lower back traveled to the back of his neck. He felt himself melt into the embrace, noticing just how pleasant the sandalwoody, cinnamon scent of his cologne was.

When the kiss broke, he buried his face into the other's shoulder to continue enjoying that smell.

"Good?"

"Yeah, yes. I- I really don't know how that could've gone better."

"I have a few ideas. Maybe we can discuss them over a glass of wine, sometime?"

"I'd like that." he nodded his head rapidly.

With that, Spy stuffed himself back into his mask and disappeared into thin air. "It's a date, mon cher."

#tf2 fanfiction #tf2 #writeblr #engiespy #practical espionage #napoleon complex #how obvious is it that im afraid of being hurt by a person i trust?#cus im seeing the thruline in my fics and uhhhhhh

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fluffy-starlaxy · 2 months

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Behold! The least complicated TF2 shipping chart,

Fluf edition.

These are the ones that I can remember liking off the top of my head, but I enjoy almost every other mercs ships (except scout and spy for obvious reasons..)

Blanks & og post (got the screenshot from another tumblr user)

#come talk with me #tf2 #yeah thats it I have a few specifications and lil fhings about them as well #like how I enjoy specifically blu sniper/red scout #and I tend to like boots n bomb with red demo and blu soldier #bc red solly is a faithful man #but demo can still join in haha #also theres #uh... dnmsd... double agent/double espionage #i do like when the spies spy #oh my god spy/sniper/spy tickles my brain so much its INSANE #big sucker for texas toast #im just waiting for incendiary to update again #i love you incendiary #mwuah #also red specifically means I have read fics dedicated to them before #you would not have guessed how much bloody suit and boots and bomb ive read #i do like silence scope better but nobody uses it :(

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liebgotts-lovergirl · 1 year

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Fire On Fire: Chapter 18

(Ch. 17) ... (Ch. 1)

II Gallery II Symbol Guide II

Summary: New visitors share old memories and Alix finds out just how much it cost Joe to be there when she needed him.

A/N: One thing about Alix Martinelli is that she will fight everything + everyone tooth & nail, even her own feelings lol

Taglist: @latibvles @softguarnere @brassknucklespeirs @mccall-muffin @lieutenant-speirs @emmythespacecowgirl @sleepisforcowards @hxad-ovxr-hxart @holdingforgeneralhugs @parajumpboots @indigo-luvers @chaosklutz

Contemporary: October 22nd, 1944. Zetten-Andelot, Netherlands.

It'd been just about a month since she'd last heard from Joe and though she would never admit it out loud, Alix was worried.

In spite of her outwardly prickly demeanor, she had hoped he would at least send a letter or maybe a note...

Technically, she wasn't supposed to read for another two weeks to ensure her concussion was fully healed but for Joe, she would have made an exception.

Gio had always said that no news was good news but that pertained mainly to letters from home while they were away at school, not updates from… from friends during a war.

That’s what we are, Alix thought, trying to force the phrase to stick in her brain. We’re just friends.

But nonetheless, for reasons she couldn't explain, Alix found herself craning her neck till it ached every time she heard the screeching tires of arriving ambulances, praying desperately that it wouldn't be Joe she'd see laying bloody and broken on a stretcher.

Fortunately, it never was but the bittersweet relief she felt each time made her heart heavy with guilt.

These were someone's sons, brothers, boyfriends, husbands, she thought to herself as she listened to the gutwrenching agony of the wounded. Their lives mattered too.

Yes, they were people she hardly knew, but so was Joe…Wasn’t he?

Why did she care so much about a man she barely knew?

Why did her heart race at the very thought of him?

Why did the memory of his arms around her bring a rush of heat to her cheeks?

Why did her head automatically swivel when she swore she'd heard his voice?

She couldn't say but it was driving her insane.

She hated herself for it but ever since their last meeting, the paratrooper had been occupying her thoughts more and more, though she would continue to chalk it up to the wandering thoughts of an idle mind.

She couldn't afford it being anything else, not now.

Not during a war.

This was no time for romance.

Besides, she reasoned, it's not like she had anything else to do except let her thoughts run wild. They were products of her boredom, nothing more.

The doctor had been very clear: Due to the severity of her concussion, there would be no reading, no writing, no planning or executing missions and no training or physical exertion allowed for at least the next two weeks as a further precaution to ensure that it was healed properly.

Until then, she was more or less confined to her cot in a cramped, chaotic room, constantly surrounded by the misery of the dead and dying.

It might as well have been prison.

One of her only distractions from the monotony was the radio.

Stolen Owned by a paratrooper from the 82nd a few rows down from her, it was only ever set on one channel but it constantly buzzed with lively swing music, interspersed with regular so-called "updates" from a well-known Nazi propagandist.

Her predictably defeatist statements were irritating to listen to but listening to actual music from home almost made them worth suffering through.

"Good evening, Yankees," an alluring alto voice purred over the grainy air waves, causing a temporary hush around the aid station.

"Axis Sally here, sending you a warm welcome from Radio Berlin."

"This that Jerry bitch again?" Someone snorted loudly from across the room and Alix stifled a giggle.

Apparently Nazi propaganda wasn't working as well as the enemy would have hoped.

"At the sound of the chime, it will be exactly 21:00 Eastern War Time on October the 22nd, 1944."

1944?

Alix stiffened.

Ever since her head injury, hearing the year out loud sent shockwaves rippling through her system as her brain struggled to fill in the blanks.

When she had first come to, she would have bet her entire inheritance that it was still 1943, that she still had a year left to train, that she still had a year left before she would have to take a life for the first time.

But that was a comforting delusion, not reality.

She had been wounded in the field during a mission, so she'd been told. With a thirty-foot drop like that onto cobblestone, it was a miracle she hadn't broken her neck.

But why had she fallen in the first place? Surely, she wasn't that clumsy.

Or had she jumped? But why would she take that kind of risk?

She could have been killed.

Alix had far more questions than answers, a fact that only made her head ache worse with every blaring trumpet.

Her case officer, Lieutenant...Well, Captain Nixon now, stood against the brick wall on her right side, supervising her recovery like a silent spectre.

He would pop in every few days to check on her but he rarely spoke and Alix got the feeling that he was trying to keep himself distracted, though from what, she couldn't be sure.

More a shadow than a man, Nixon stood out of the way of the nurses as he nonchalantly skimmed fresh intel reports like the evening paper.

"Mind if I-?" Alix started, reaching a hand out to pluck a file from the bunch but before she could, the sight of two fast-approaching paratroopers caught her attention.

One seemed to be calling something out in her direction as he approached and the other was waving his arms enthusiastically as though signaling a plane.

“Hey Pyro, we thought that might be you!”

The speaker had a face dusted with freckles, decidedly auburn hair that was sticking to his forehead, and an exhausted but upbeat smile that faded to a frown as he approached.

“Jesus, you look like shit.”

His companion, a trooper about a head shorter with a mop of dirty blond hair and startlingly golden eyes, smacked him in the arm.

“Nice going, Don,” he quipped, shaking his head with a bemused chuckle. “Why get off on the right foot when you can shove it straight in your mouth instead, huh?”

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Alix interjected, taking the pair by surprise and the redhead– Don– made an emphatic gesture with an arm.

“See, even she admits it!”

“Don’t encourage him, Pyro,” the blond one scolded in an exaggerated stage-whisper, laughter twinkling in his amber eyes.

“I’m trying to teach him some manners here.”

“Oh get lost,” the redhead– Don, Alix corrected herself– scoffed, jostling his friend’s arm jokingly.

“Man gets a fiancée and suddenly thinks he knows all about women!”

“I know they generally don’t like being told they look like shit, Mal,” was the dry reply.

“But you don’t exactly have to be Dick fucking Tracy to figure that one out.”

“Hi, sorry, um,” Alix interrupted, waving a hand to get their attention. “Hate to put a damper on things but do I know you...? And why do you keep calling me…Wait, what did you call me?”

“Shit,” the redhaired one-- Don-- breathed as his brows knit with concern. “So it is true.”

“What’s true?” she inquired, already feeling even more out of the loop than before.

“You really can’t remember. Lieb said so but I didn’t think–”

The spy’s head perked up instantly.

Lieb…As in Liebgott? As in Joe Liebgott?

He was alive?

“Joe’s okay?” she asked, a note of hope ringing out clear in her voice and the blond paratrooper exchanged an amused glance with his friend.

“Well wouldja look at that, Mal.” He put a teasing hand to his heart as though swooning, cracking a playful grin. “As the great poet, Larry Clinton and his orchestra once said: ‘Love really does live on’.”

“‘Love’, my ass,” Alix retorted unceremoniously with a roll of her eyes. “I asked if he’s okay, not if he’d marry me.”

She hated how her heart seemed to skip a beat at the notion.

“Bet he’d say yes if you did ask though,” Don hooted and his blond friend snorted in agreement.

“Are you two done yet?” the agent asked dryly, pretending to inspect an invisible watch on her wrist with impatience.

With a shake of his head and a grin so infectious that Alix couldn’t help but grin too, the blond paratrooper plopped down at the foot of her bed, causing the frame to groan its complaint.

“Oh we’re just getting started!” he piped up proudly, his amber eyes twinkling with warmth. “We’ve got a lot to catch you up on!”

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

“And then, wham!"

Don swung his fist out in a dramatic slow-motion display.

"You slugged him right in the kisser!"

The blond trooper, whose name was Skip– pretended to fall back onto the bed with a high-pitched "Nyahh" reminiscent of the Three Stooges and Alix couldn’t help but giggle at the ridiculousness of his performance.

“Somehow I doubt it went exactly like that,” she commented wryly but Don shrugged amicably.

“No, it was basically like that,” he corrected with a chuckle. “Except with a lot more swearing. And blood, way too much blood.”

"It was a real show!" the blond– Skip– agreed, sitting up and swinging his legs back and forth over the bed's edge like an excitable child.

"Like watching Sugar Ray in the ring…Y'know, if Sugar Ray was a short Philly Italian with martial arts training and anger management issues!"

"And that's why everybody calls you Pyro,” Don informed Alix with a proud smile. “Like pyrotechnics. Y'know, firecrackers! Bull came up with it!”

Now she was lost again.

“Sorry, who?” she asked, trying to keep the rising frustration out of her voice.

After all, it wasn’t their fault she couldn’t remember.

“Bull Randleman,” Nixon answered from beside her, barely looking up from the report he was reading.

“He’s an NCO. You’ll meet him when you get back. Great soldier–”

“And a swell guy too!” Skip added happily. “Say, that reminds me! How long're you in for?"

Glancing surreptitiously at Nixon to be sure he wasn't listening, Alix leaned over to her newfound friends, lowering her voice.

"Nurses say about two more weeks but I'll be damned if I stay here that long. I'm going out of my mind."

"Well hopefully it'll be sooner than that," Don said, putting his hands in his pockets. "'Cause we all miss you."

Skip waggled his eyebrows.

"Especially a certain Corporal Liebgott," he sing-songed and Alix rolled her eyes.

"If that was true, he'd be here," the spy countered but to her right, Nixon gave a skeptical snort.

"What?" Alix snapped, rounding on her handler.

"You think he hasn't tried?" The captain barked out a laugh.

"Liebgott's been bugging the hell out of any officer he can get his hands on, trying to get us to cut him loose so he can come here. If we didn't need him interrogating prisoners, I would've let him go myself just to get him to shut up already."

Alix blinked in shock.

"Wait, really?"

"No, I'm just lying to inflate your ego." Nixon said sarcastically. "Of course really. Kid must have it bad too because that stunt he pulled last time, staying here overnight when he should've been back, cost him his promotion."

The spy balked.

“It what?!”

“Just what I said. Liebgott might be a scrawny, hot-tempered, snarky little shit but he's also a damn fine interrogator and one hell of a machine gunner."

He shifted the dossier he had been skimming to his other arm and then continued.

"Not to mention, for some reason, he's still only a T/5 at 25 years old. Dick was filling out the paperwork to get him promo'd to T/4 when he heard about the whole 'Lieb going AWOL' thing and…"

Nixon grimaced with a helpless shrug.

"Well, you can imagine how that went."

Joe had lost his promotion…Because of her?

Tugging her thin, medical issue blanket around her shoulders, Alix's thoughts were moving at warp-speed.

This was not what she had wanted, not at all.

If she had known that Joe would get in trouble for staying, she never would have asked him to.

She had been through flashbacks and panic attacks before; as awful as they were, they were nothing new. She had become a distraction to him and him to her.

This needed to stop.

But the steely edge of Nixon's voice cut through her thoughts like a knife.

“And don’t go beating yourself up for it, alright, because I know you are.”

Her case officer crossed his arms before continuing.

“Lieb made his choice– he put his personal feelings before the job. That is not your fault.”

The young agent sank back in her cot with a sigh of defeat as she watched the never-ending crush of patients being rushed in like commuters from 30th Street Station.

Joe had put his job on the line for her…However complex her feelings about him were, Alix couldn’t allow them to continue, for Joe’s sake.

Turning to Skip and Don, who were engrossed in their own conversation, she decided to make one thing crystal clear.

“Don’t you two go risking your careers for me too, you got that?”

The redhead dug a hand into his pocket with a chuckle.

“Don’t worry,” he said breezily, pulling out a crumpled carton of iodine swabs and some hastily-wound gauze for her inspection.

“We’re here on official business.”

“Volunteered for a supply run while there’s a lull,” Skip explained with an infectious grin, revealing a couple pilfered tourniquets stuffed into his jacket.

"We wanted to check up on you and Spina's already starting to run low on some stuff so we figured two birds, one stone, ya know?"

Alix couldn’t help but grin with him, already feeling at-ease in their presence.

“You guys are the best.”

“We know,” Don quipped, jostling her shoulder lightly. “But what are friends for?”

“It really blows that you can’t come back with us, Pyro.” Skip’s seemingly ever-present smile started to slip slightly.

“Just doesn’t feel right without you. We’re missing our third man…Well, woman. But you get what I mean.”

It was then that an idea struck Alix like a bolt of lightning, an idea so risky that for a second, she wondered if it was even worth mentioning.

But she had to try...She couldn't spend another week cooped up at the aid station, bedridden and bored to tears while thousands of others were risking their lives, she just couldn't.

The field was where she belonged, where she had fought so hard to be.

Besides, her most serious injury-- her concussion-- was almost healed and she had been assured that her memory would return in time.

With her cover as a combat nurse still intact, Alix knew she could just as easily let her wrist and ankle heal after she made it back to Joe--

To Easy, she corrected herself. After she made it back to Easy Company.

So it was decided then.

She knew what she had to do.

Gesturing surreptitiously for her new friends to move closer, Alix whispered, "Say, how'd you guys like to help me bust out of here?"

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fuckyeahfightlock · 4 months

Text

The Jewel in the Tower (207k, E) completed 25 JUN 2016

Sherlock (TV), 29,862 hits, 1051 kudos

Summary:

In a contemporary dystopia, Unity is peace--despite the fact unsanctioned information, illicit currency, and every sort of danger flows unchecked in the world's pleasure districts.

John Watson, a weary hired gun, is assigned by the mysterious Mentor to investigate a subversive element lurking in the Icehouse, the world's most famous House of Repose. As accustomed as he is to dealing with the unexpected, John is nevertheless woefully unprepared to meet the gem of the Ice house, Xie, the world renowned "drashaskaya," the living work of art after which all other drashas are modeled.

In sumptuous suites, amid trailing puddles of silk and fervent whispers in the night, John soon learns that nothing is as it seems in the floating world of London's pleasure district.

Grade: A-

Favorite Line: We are imperfect for each other.

What I’d do differently today: The chapter/s wherein Sherlock is found injured and taken to hospital, and the way the hospital scenes play out are kind of. . .operatic? They felt a little histrionic to me, as I reread it this weekend. I could also see where I either wrote it in a hurry or was getting tired of writing it, in that section (maybe readers can, too, or maybe not, I don't know). If I were to rewrite any of this, it would be about 30 - 50% of that segment of the story.

Notes: I reread this over the last couple of weeks because I wanted to read about the clothes, and was surprised to find myself kind of drawn into the story--there were bits and bobs I'd forgotten, including the details of the espionage subplot; the fact John and Lestrade became friends; and Sherlock's sweet tooth.

I was proud of a lot of the snappy dialogue, particularly between The Face and the Mentor, but also in the scenes with The Face and the Lamia, as well as that oozy, awful monster Jim Moriarty, who was terrible and terrifying without slipping into mwahaha-moustache-twirling villain territory, which he can.

The smut is intensely hot in places--and no penetrative sex, which was appropriate to the story, and looking back on it probably a challenge to write, considering there are probably 20+ sex scenes in the story.

As I was reading, at one point I thought to myself, This is someone's favourite Sherlock fic, and while I have no proof of this (no one I can recall ever having said this to me), I feel sure it's true, and that's sweet and humbling.

Most of you know I retooled this and published it as a novel without the Sherlock characters. I cannot remember most of the names I gave them. The fic is more "real' to me than the novel, now/still. Whatever that means. Probably nothing but it's interesting, considering I spent at least as long with the novel prep as I spent with the fic.

#my decade in fic #writing #fic #The Jewel in the Tower #modern-day dystopian/one-world government/espionage/geisha!lock AU

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spookyspaghettisundae · 28 days

Text

Breaking In Was the Easy Part

Shadows kept what shadows veiled.

The security guard’s shoes clapped against shiny, marbled floors. He stopped by one of the tall windows, overlooking the glittering skyline of Rome by night.

He stared outwards. Sniffed. Scratched his butt.

Hiding in the shadows nearby, where this oblivious guard ran risk of glimpsing her from the corner of his eyes, Chloe Grant held her breath. Frozen, still, like a statue, she waited in the dark.

The guard remained oblivious. He continued staring out into the night. He stood there for so long that Grant’s lungs began to ache from holding her breath, and a frustration, welling deep down, started budding into anger.

She had already broken into the building without him noticing. Now, he just needed to get the hell out of her way. Preferably before she needed to gasp for air, or the anger bloomed into fiery rage.

In the drop of a hat, she could have switched his lights off, just like that. The silenced pistol in her toolkit had a bullet with this guy’s name on it. She wasn’t one to snuff out some rent-a-cop if she could avoid it, but he was taking his sweet time.

The temptation to go for the gun rose while the burning in her lungs blossomed alongside her frustration.

Finally, the guard walked on. Disappeared around the next corner of the corridor, descending deeper into the bowels of IntelliTech.

Every shuddering breath hurt as Grant’s lungs flooded with desperately needed oxygen. All her frustration waned as fast as any pain subsided. After all, this guard knew nothing. Probably lived his days and nights, working security here, oblivious to the true nature of IntelliTech.

It was just one of many shell companies used by Celava worldwide. They fronted this IT provider, but all of Spencer’s intelligence pointed to IntelliTech serving as a data hub for the multinational energy corporation.

And this one, single, useless guard—well, he was just doing his job. Not well enough to have noticed the woman who infiltrated the building that night, but doing his job nevertheless.

He’d probably get fired if Grant’s invasion was eventually noticed, but that was very low on her list of concerns.

Once the guard had moved far enough out of earshot, she whispered into her headset.

“Hammy’s gone. What’s it look like out there?”

“Coast is clear,” responded Ruiz via their radio, with a soft crackle of static. “Pretty sure it’s just the one guy on-site.”

“Keep your eyes peeled. I prefer ‘definitely’ over ‘pretty sure’.”

Grant snuck out of the alcove, slipping past one of the ornate alabaster sculptures of Roman deities. She weaved her way past the other divinities, heading in the opposite direction from the security guard who had missed her intrusion.

Much to her relief, most of the building’s rooms and hallways featured clear labels. Big, black print emblazoned on brushed gunmetal plates. She followed their lead, drawing her spiraling path ever closer to the building’s server room.

Minutes ticked as she moved with the quietude of a cat. She kept her eyes peeled for security cameras, shimmying underneath any when their cold, glassy lenses looked the other way.

Ruiz asked via radio, “And you, uh, you don’t think anything’s… off? These guys got a lot of valuable data to keep private here, and security’s a little bit on the sad-sack side, don’tcha think?”

Grant paused, ducking behind a towering potted plant to wait.

To listen.

The guard was long gone, on the opposite side of the building, and unlikely to hear her.

Ruiz wasn’t wrong in his observation. She had thought the same thing.

“Yes and no. I’m guessing there’s some extra bells and whistles we haven’t noticed yet. Some less-than-obvious stuff. All the windows are bullet-proof, and some of these doors are magnetically locked with steel reinforcements. A lot of the premises are labeled, but then there’s some big mystery doors. My guess is, they have something else underneath this building—something that ain’t just plain little ol’ IT, if you catch my drift.”

A long pause.

It felt strange how this liminal space was swallowing all her whispers.

Silence filled the vacuous hallways of IntelliTech.

“You think they’re holding some specimens down there,” Ruiz said.

Grant snuck on. Set her jaw. Through clenched teeth, she replied.

“Almost a one hundred percent chance.”

Another long bout of silence followed from Ruiz. He broke it with a short and ominous remark.

“Switchin’ to point-fifty.”

She paused again, just outside a sealed door, labeled—

SERVER ROOM.

“Jesus. You gonna ready some AA missiles to go with that?”

Grant guided a stolen keycard through a reader next to the door. A red light on the device turned green and the gadget emitted a soft beep, with a loud click-CLANK to follow, as the magnetic seal on the door released, and the door slid open with a soft whoosh.

“Ain’t takin’ no chances tonight. If they got a specimen down there as a watchdog, you just line it up, and I’ll take it down.”

Grant slipped into the server room, where the hum of hundreds of fans filled the air. The whole room vibrated, and the array of server racks, all encased in metal and glass, looked like something straight out of a science fiction flick.

The door automatically slid shut behind her.

She needed access—soon—because all her movements in the building, such as opening these mag-locked doors, were likely being recorded in some sub-system. And registering it to the guy whose card she had stolen.

It had to be a matter of time.

Now locked inside a room where she was permitted to make more noise, she ripped open the zipper on her backpack. Locating the nearest server, she whipped out the device Singh had provided them with for the mission, hooked it up to the system, and booted up the sleek black laptop.

Instead of an operating system’s stock screen to greet her, a sinister-looking and slow-moving loading bar progressed on-display, while the device brute-forced its digital tendrils into IntelliTech’s—or rather, into Celava’s—data hub.

Minutes flew by to the steady whispering hum of computer fans in the room, while Singh’s hacking device worked its magic, and Grant awaited its completion with bated breath.

“How’s it goin’ in there?” crackled Ruiz’s voice via headset, now with heavier static interference. “Security guard’s out on a smoke break. Coast is still clear. If anybody knows what’s up, they ain’t showin’ jack for it.”

Grant shot a glance at the screen.

It had changed already, which she had missed because it looked almost the same: the progress bar now indicated how far the device had gotten in vacuuming up all the data it could access from this data hub.

She didn’t want to envision how expensive the unseeming sleek laptop and its hardware must have been. Then again, Malachi Spencer was footing the bill, and Future Proof’s pockets seemed to run as deep as the Mariana Trench.

“Almost done,” she replied.

79%.

She wished she could scour the data gathered here while she waited.

Grant wondered if Spencer’s suspicion would prove to have been right.

Whether or not Celava was truly funneling personnel and natural resources through the Anomalies, all with a singular and terrifying purpose: to build a colony in the distant past, in some era before the dinosaurs went extinct.

In the here and now, however, Grant only glimpsed a black screen with a white progress bar. Racking up all the data.

93% complete.

Just before her patience could wear thin, a monitor on the wall winked on, flashing brightly with electronic life.

The monitor flickered, yet refused to display any image, staying a darker shade of gray—revealing it had turned on, without casting much light. Speakers behind the device emitted a soft ringtone, like a call or message had just come in.

Then a booming voice spoke to her.

“I am the Operator, and you are very naughty,” spoke a mysterious man’s voice from the monitor’s speakers—with a playfulness to his tone, and a strong British accent. “Cease what you’re doing now, or I’ll be forced to release the hounds. And, fair warning, I do not mean electronic countermeasures.”

She played it smart. Offered no response. Nothing she could be recognized by. Like the ski mask concealing her face, a voice could lead to identification. For now, she preferred to maintain her image as the nondescript cat burglar.

96% complete.

“Not talkative today, hm? You know, the hounds usually make intruders far more chatty. Or, well, screamy. I suspect it will be the latter with you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

He sounded young and mischievous. How much of the threat was empty?

A smirk crept across Grant’s face.

Was this guy for real?

“Hah. Have it your way then. Your screams of terror will probably make for a great feature on our next instructional video. I do love authenticity. Nice never having known ya, I suppose. Ta.”

The monitor deactivated again. The gray glow vanished as its electronic life disappeared.

And nothing else happened.

Asked Ruiz on the radio, “What the hell was that?”

In case anything was being recorded in the server room, Grant stayed quiet. She looked around for bugs, microphones, cameras, anything.

She found nothing.

99%.

A man’s scream reached her, muffled through the mag-locked door into the security room.

Her only way out.

The scream endured, shifting through varying stages of surprise, agony, and horror. It didn’t end as abruptly as it started, instead petering out with indecipherable pleading in Italian, and cutting off after a bout of gurgling noises.

The security guard?

100%.

Keeping her eyes locked on the door, Grant yanked Singh’s device away from the server rack, careless of the cable she blindly ripped out of its socket in the process. She stuffed the sleek laptop into her small backpack and neared the door again.

THUMP.

Something had hit the door, leaving Grant frozen, while her heartbeat raced at a pace of a thousand miles a minute, felt all the way up into her neck, and accompanied by the rushing of blood in her ears.

There was something out there.

Silence. The shuddering breath she dared to take could not have eclipsed any sounds out there, but she felt a presence. The vicinity of something dangerous.

Of something deadly.

There were no other ways out of the server room. The only other door led to a dead end, where Grant frantically looked through, only to find a bunch of clutter in form of cardboard boxes, spare cables, a sink fastened to the wall, and other useless junk.

“Talk to me, Goose,” said Ruiz. “Can’t see anything out here. Guard went back inside, and you’re in a blind spot for me.”

She waited at the mag-locked door. Couldn’t sense any presence there now.

The deadly silence remained.

She swiped the keycard down the mag-lock reader. The device only emitted an obnoxious beep and its red light blinked.

“Uh-uh-uh,” said the Operator from the TV speakers with a mocking, singing tone to it. “I locked down everything. Consider it me doing you a favor, magpie. A sweeper team is on its way to arrest you. They’ll return the hound to its cage before you’re ripped to shreds, and you’ll get to have a nice, lovely chat with a security detail, and then some corrupt police officials, I wager. One day, you might even get a chance to look back at all of this and have a good laugh—that is, from behind prison bars, of course.”

The Operator chuckled with sadistic glee.

Grant’s anger almost gave air to a single swearword, and instead exploded into a strike of her knuckles against the metal door.

The Operator was making perfect sense. Having worked in counter-intelligence herself, she would have run the same kind of ship. Issued the same kind of intimidation and taunts as he was.

She knew better than to succumb to fear, or spiral into inaction, and knew exactly what to try next.

The Operator had responded to her attempt at opening the door with the keycard—he clearly had no eyes on the server room, only on whatever any device was ever telling him. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, he could remotely open and close any mag-locks throughout the building.

She was boxed in now. And she wasn’t going to wait for some sweeper team to capture her.

Thus, Grant acted quickly. Whipped out the tiny toolkit she had brought along for analog intrusion.

She had already been detected, and something was out there—according to the Operator, ready to slash her to ribbons upon contact—so subtlety had just flown out the window. And the poor security guard guy, well, he had probably lost more than his job just now.

Her foldable crowbar snapped into full length after she retrieved it from her kit, and she used it to jimmy open the mag-lock reader.

“You need to get the hell outta there,” said Ruiz, nervous tremors swinging fiercer with every word. “There’s an Apex fuckin’ Predator in those halls. It’s trailing blood all over the place, and I think it’s lookin’ for you. That security guard is toast, and I got no eyes on the AP. It’s too fast, moved into some room. I think it loops around to where you are. Repositioning.”

Metal sheets bent and splintered until she stopped prying at the reader with the crowbar, and ripped off the metal casing. Dexterous, Kevlar-gloved fingers started eviscerating the card reader, splaying out its thin wiring, and trying to make sense of its design.

Closed system. Not anything she could simply override.

Fuck.

The swearword echoed in her brain.

She backtracked into the backroom and pursued plan B.

Her boot crashed down on the ceramic sink with a heavy kick. Upon first impact, a long crack appeared on the wall behind it.

The whole place’s design for doors and locks and computerization was modern—but being situated in the center of Rome, the building must have featured some parts that had never been modernized by its newest owners.

Another kick shattered the sink and water started trickling from a bent pipe.

She grunted and gritted her teeth as she kicked and punched at the wall until she could jam the crowbar right into the growing fissure she was creating, busting her way through the wall.

Her tiny flashlight clicked. She shone its light into the fissure.

Luckily, none of it was solid concrete. Just a bunch of old bricks behind thin plaster and white paint.

“Do you know how to play chess, magpie?” asked the Operator from the adjacent room. “If you’re smart enough—and I truly hope you are—then I’m sure you can play it in the theater of the mind. Or draw on the floor for all I care. I’m sure it’ll buff out, even if you use a permanent marker.”

He didn’t know what she was up to. No eyes on the backroom. No electronics to spy on.

Lucky.

She gritted her teeth again and pulled at the drain pipe in the wall with all her might. The metal squealed, then finally bent before snapping away where it broke. Grant grunted again and yanked a portion of drain pipe from the wall, then used it as a blunt instrument to break through the wall entirely.

She struck and struck away, widening the hole, and hammering the gap. When it found purchase and dug deeper into the fissure, she used it like a cruder crowbar to widen the hole.

The Operator rambled on in his musing, mocking tone. “I’ll even give you the luxury of making the opening move. White pawn on F-7 moves to F-5. You know… a little IT joke on the side?”

There was no way she was going engage.

“Come on, it’s funny!”

Grant continued hammering and striking away, tearing away chunks of red brick and artificial rubble till her black gloves had turned a chalky white, and until the hole had grown wide enough. A different light poured in through a hole on the other side of the fissure.

The ski mask and black attire was soaking up her sweat. She must have lost minutes already. If there was a sweeper team on its way—and she suspected the Operator had been telling the truth—she didn’t have a lot of time left.

Ruiz hadn’t spoken in those minutes. She hoped he had kept his cool, and stayed on position of the eagle’s perch a few buildings away.

She needed the sharpshooter to shoot sharp if it came down to it.

Breathing heavily, she only perceived a deceptive silence from the adjacent room.

Every further attempt at tearing open the wall came easier than the last, with all its integrity having been demolished by her incessant and systematic destruction. Whole bricks clunked down and the rest crumbled, and the drain pipe clanked and clattered when she chucked it aside to climb through the hole, clambering into an open office space.

The Operator was still talking, babbling about Chess moves and other inane tomfoolery, but her own panting, and the noises of fighting her way out of the backroom into the office drowned it all out.

Pressed up against the wall next to the office’s door, she waited again, hoping to hear something—anything—that might reveal the presence of the “hound” the Operator had warned her about.

But… nothing. Not a sound.

This was going to end badly.

She had seen those monstrosities in action before. Silent, agile, fast, and built to kill grown humans in the blink of an eye. Evolved beyond natural evolution, and as Burch had later theorized—maybe designed by genetic engineering.

The Apex Predator was lurking. Hiding. In position to ambush her.

Seconds passed, melting into what felt like an infinity. Time—a luxury—she didn’t have.

Time.

Grant considered retrieving her silenced pistol from her pack, but decided against it. Nine millimeter rounds weren’t going to do much against such a beast.

She opened the office door and crept outside.

Sprays of blood had painted the walls with gruesome splatters. The body of the security guard wasn’t even nearby. Crimson marked where the creature had dragged it along the marbled floors, around the next corner.

Grant scanned every nook and cranny, keeping in mind every single thing that Mischchenko had taught her about predatory wildlife.

Watch for the shadows. Watch for vectors along which an animal can leap. And if it can fly, or climb—such as these Apex Predators could—always look up.

And just as she looked up, following the cue of those teachings, she almost regretted it. Her heart skipped a beat. The gangly, mottled-gray body of the Apex Predator hid just beneath the high ceiling, perched atop one of those statues of a Roman deity.

“Oh no,” said the Operator, pressing out the second word with vicious sarcasm, and his voice now coming from unseen speakers in the hallway. “Quite the pickle you’re in, aren’t you? Wish you would have stayed and played some Chess now, eh?”

Bloodstained claws clicked against the sculpture’s shoulders. A guttural growl from its closed, toothy maw sent shivers down Grant’s spine. It hissed.

The Apex Predator stared at her through its spider-like array of eyes. The brain implant exposed on the top of its skull glowed with a singular red light.

A spiderweb of cracks appeared on the nearby window, and the Predator’s head whipped around, as it snarled at where the glass cracked.

“Run! Now!” shouted Ruiz via headset.

He had shot the window, and the glass withstood his .50 caliber.

Grant needed not be told twice. She dove into the next alcove behind a statue, and the Predator flew past her. Then she zigzagged the opposite way, towards where the Apex Predator had leapt from in its deadly lunge at her.

The creature screeched—turning into an alien and ear-piercing howl—as its claws scraped against marble, and it skidded along the smooth, blood-splattered floor.

Running for her life, she dove around the next corner, and the Apex Predator followed. She leapt over the dead security guard’s mangled corpse, just in time to hurtle through the next door on her way back out, and slam it shut behind her.

The Predator would have caught her, had it not slammed into that same door with the momentum of a speeding truck, and broken the door’s surrounding frame in the process—everything bent upon impact, metal deformed.

Another blood-curdling shriek pierced the night as the Predator pried its way through the door, tearing through the feeble obstruction in its pursuit of the fleshy human in the Kevlar catsuit.

Grant fled through the building, retracing her steps with little thought, and panic driving her running stride.

Glimpses over her shoulder only accelerated her footsteps and supercharged her terror, as the ferocious mutant quickly closed the distance once it had clawed its way through the door, only to crash into the next one she slammed shut in between them.

“Fuck,” Ruiz shouted. “Move!”

Her boots clanked up the metal stairwell as she fled upstairs to the rooftop from which she had gained entry into the building.

And finally, making her heart sink, Grant’s mad dash ended at the mag-locked door she had opened with the stolen keycard.

The red light on the card reader glowed a menacing red, mirroring the red glow on the Apex Predator’s brain implant.

She was trapped.

“Oh, Magpie,” spoke the Operator. “See, I could open that door for you, and set you free… but then I’d also set our little doggy free, free to roam the city of Rome, and feast upon—well, I’m not actually sure how many people it would rip apart in its rampage before we put it down—”

Metal squealed as the Predator pried the door to the stairwell open. The creature peered up to her and shrieked.

With feral fury.

“I’m sure you’re regretting your life choices now, aren’t you. Well, you can’t blame—”

“Get away from the door,” growled Ruiz on the headset radio.

“No!” shouted Grant. “We can’t let this thing out!”

The Predator stormed up the stairs with leaping bounds, skipping entire floors as it flew up the center of the spiraling stairwell.

“Oh, how very noble of you. I tip my hat, missy!”

“Down!” yelled Ruiz.

He was going to do it, one way or another—

She ducked.

The door exploded. Then it exploded again. Two of Ruiz’s rifle shots had blown football-sized holes through it. Funny how the glass withstood more punishment.

Before any dust could settle, the Predator flew over the stairwell railing and its claws cut deep. Grant’s own blood sprayed, shedding DNA that could be traced—the least of her worries now, as the blood drained from her head, and she lost all feeling in her left arm. An arm and hand that refused to obey when—

She ripped the broken door open, and fled onto the rooftop, into the sea of night, where glittering lights sparkled on Rome’s city skyline. The streets bustled with life—life that was threatened to be ended by the creature right behind her—

Grant fumbled and retrieved the pistol from her pack, just in time for the growling creature to follow onto the rooftop where she had emerged. Its brain implant glowed red like a malevolent, cyclopean eye.

It prowled towards her while the pistol slid perfectly into her grip, and she aimed at the Predator’s head with practiced precision.

It had smelled blood, and it was poised to leap again.

To kill.

The pain in her arm screamed as it hung lifelessly from her side, while she stayed silent and aimed with her right.

She aimed.

To kill.

To pull the trigger, as it leapt.

The bullets she released didn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop it. Probably even hit.

The next thing she knew, the smoking, silenced gun was on the rooftop next to her, and she was holding her side, where claws had left a deep wound, and all the warmth escaped her, pumping wet and slick and deathly.

The Predator crumpled to the ground, and echoes of Ruiz’s dampened shots were so loud that she could still hear them, several rooftops away.

Like the .50 had blown holes through the door, it had turned entire chunks of the Predator into a fine red mist. Killed the damned thing dead outright before it could kill her.

Well, almost.

Almost.

Grant slumped from her knees onto the ground, splayed out and with all strength escaping her like the blood.

Ruiz was talking to her all the while. The Operator, less audible from out there, also continued babbling.

Darkness enshrouded her field of vision until shadow swallowed all. And blinking never dispelled it fully. The starry night blended with the darkness of death.

Breaking in was the easy part. Always was, wasn’t it?

Getting out, unnoticed, unscathed—that was the hard part.

Everything hurt.

Guess this is what dying is like.

Losing consciousness, losing time, she didn’t know how long she took to fade away, in and out, until a silhouette rushed to her rescue, towering over her, and joining the darkness in blotting out the glittering night’s sky.

Not the silhouette of Ruiz, that is, but many figures. Men in black jumpsuits, armored, and armed to the teeth with firearms and batons. They sported ski masks like her own, with eyes covered by night-vision goggles.

A whole strike force of hired guns crowded around her.

They lifted her up. Not a damned thing she could have done about it.

They carried her away. Over the crumpled carcass of the Apex Predator.

All the pain went away, flared up, went away again.

Away.

They carried her away, into a blinding bright light.

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