Author's note: hey. I know I'm still not done with my other fics but I had this sudden burst of inspiration and this is what happened. The disclaimer is a spoiler to the twist in the story.
Disclaimer: These things are not mine, not mine, and not mine. I own Sahara and certain changes in the plot (I don't think they affected the overall story too badly). I have only watched the movie three times so not everything is word-for-word. Sorry.
Dedication: (geez) This goes out to Clarenova and Constance, who kindly did beta testing for me (forcibly, and Clarenova, you scribbled all over page one!), and Sara Adam Ang, whom I could not have written this fic without. How many times you barged to my desk to read my notebook I do not know. At any rate, Sahara was named after, or from her (does "Sara! Give back my nametag/let go of my hair!" sound familiar?). Thank you all.
…
She was maybe 1.6 meters tall, around fourteen or so at the very most. Twelve might have been closer, though. Her waist length, ebony black hair was braided back neatly into one plait and a thin, wispy fringe just touched her dark, arched eyebrows. Her soulful deep brown eyes revealed a twinge of amusement, as did her faintly upturned lips. She was definitely Oriental, and she was upside-down – hanging from a rope in the ceiling.
The rope creaked slightly as she turned full circle, hands gripping it with slim black leather gloves, trying to the get the full measurement of her surroundings. She was clad in a sleek long-sleeved black turtleneck and tight fitting khaki shorts that spanned barely halfway to her knees. Engraved in her copper belt buckle was something that looked like an angular kind of plant – possibly a cactus. Hooked the left side of the belt itself was a shiny, well-polished 0.7 caliber Desert Eagle. She was clearly not someone to be treated lightly.
Apparently satisfied, the girl released the rope, doing a few quick somersaults in mid-air and landing in a combat crouch. Her dressy boots, made of black leather like the rest of her outfit, squealed on the rough, asphalt ground. She flipped out her gun with two hands and strode forward with an air of confidence; but her body was rigid and she was clearly on her guard.
The prize stood on a solitary stand crafted like an altar at the end of the long corridor, flanked on both sides by eight sets of identically engraved pillars, about nine meters high but not quite up to the high ceiling, which was maybe ten. It was bathed in an ethereal blue light, causing the blood red stone to tinge faint violet. Each polished side sharply reflected the light, making it totally eye-catching. It was a masterpiece.
The girl holstered her weapon and broke into a sprint, her limbs moving so quickly they were almost blurred. At the last minute, as she approached the eighth and final row of pillars before the gem, she did a back flip and landed in a split. Using both hands, she whipped out her gun and began firing just as the pillar on the right came crashing down.
Atop the fallen pillar was an enormous robot on two mechanical legs. It was nearly two and a half meters high and while its left arm seemed to be a zapper of some kind, its right arm was a huge, whizzing chainsaw. Where its face should have been was a wide monitor; shielded by a heavy layer of plexiglass and framed by multi-colored wires.
It stomped, no, glided its way across the pillar at a disarmingly fast pace and leapt off the other end. She finished off the clip but it seemed to make no differences – it kept coming straight at her. This time she got up and did several neat back springs to the next pillar. From her pocket she fumbled with another clip, smoothly ejecting the old one and ramming in a new round. And then she was suddenly rolling to the right, as the sawn through pillar fell at the exact spot she'd been at. Without pausing to think she squeezed off four shots while running around the robot rather than away from it. Fractional shards of metal burst off the body armor, some sparking sparks off naked wires beneath. When it spun to face her, she was close enough to read the one word flashing on the screen: kill.
Juts before she reached the stand, she dove and rolled and a jet of purple laser burned into the base, missing her by inches. Back to the podium, she fired off five more bullets, this time into the plexiglass rather than the bodywork. The sixth burst through the spider-webbed, cracked glass and embedded itself very slightly in the screen.
Unfortunately, the droid was on her by now, and its drilling or razoring arm was bent on getting her neck.
Dropping the gun, the girl now reached up and grabbed the arm, trying to force it away. Tiny beads of perspiration dripped down her forehead from the exertion. At the last minute she used the arm to slide her body away the right side.
The result was spectacular. The arm fell with a dull thud and began to cut at the floor, spraying gobbled up chunks of stone in every direction. Shielding her eyes, the girl turned and pounced heavily on its back, forcing the arm down harder. The razor clanked cantankerously and stopped. It also got stuck. The robot was freeing itself when she attacked, firing a hole into the circuit board with the gun she'd scooped up on the way. She then whipped out the sleek dagger hidden under her right sock and used it to hack through the rainbow wires, hands protected from the fiery sparks by her gloves.
The robot made something like a cough, and then stopped.
The girl allowed herself a slight laugh. Her voice was moderately low and melodious. Clambering off the robot, she turned it over easily – clearly it was much lighter than it looked, this was probably the root of its agility. She carelessly brushed the plexiglass off the screen, which was still flashing, then yanked out the cartridge in the side. The screen abruptly went fuzzy, then black. Holding it in between her teeth, she removed a small plastic case from her pocket and placed the other cartridge into it after taking out the other cartridge inside. She then kept the box and slotted it in. Nothing happened. She kicked it – hard – and it suddenly began to play music – Missy Elliott. Then she spun and stood on tiptoes, fingertips brushing the dust off the gem, about to grasp it-
The robot suddenly made a bleeping sound, as if it had received some kind of message. Abruptly the music stopped. She frowned, and turned around slowly.
The robot instantly thwacked her in the face.
With a book?!!
"Your homework!" flashed the screen. Abraham Lincoln's face seemed to be laughing loudly at her from page 172.
"Mum!" she howled.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Lara Croft folded her arms and leaned casually against of the dozen or so computer screen in the room. Next to her sat Bryce, bound hand and foot with wires that looked as if they'd just been ripped out. He was gagged with something that looked amusingly like it was torn off a mouse pad.
The thirteen year old Chinese girl trudged guiltily into the room, dragging along a very battered SIMON behind her. In her other hand she held her history book and she was reciting dutifully, "In 1942, during the second world war-"
"Nice try, Sahara," said Lara mercilessly, but she smiled ever so slightly. It was not a cold smile. "I've told you before, no-"
"-no live rounds with SIMON," Sahara finished balefully. She, like Lara, spoke with an upper-class, well-bred English accent.
"No SIMON until your homework is done," corrected Lara.
Bryce grunted. Lara nudged him with the toe of her combat boot.
"And Bryce, next time you let this young lady off her homework, I use live rounds on SIMON," she added menacingly.
Bryce's eyes said, very clearly, "Bugger".
"And you," shot Lara, turning back to Sahara, "If you go shower now and finish your homework quickly, after dinner I might just let you borrow SIMON II." Sahara grinned and bounded up the stairs much like a friendly puppy dog, not at all like how she looked before. When she was gone, Lara sliced through Bryce's bonds using a knife similar to Sahara's. The instant his gag was off, Bryce began babbling away like a steam engine gone wrong. Very much so.
"Lara, you just used SIMON II this morning; he's in pain, he's injured-" he stopped at Lara's expression. "I'll fix him up," he said in a small voice.
Lara half-smiled at Bryce as she closed the door behind her.
"Poor SIMON, look what she's done to you," whined Bryce, lovingly carrying his pet to his working desk. SIMON was still smoldering. "Bloody hell, she's just like her mother."