Author's Note:
Hello! Thanks for checking out this VF fic. Feel free to skip right to the start because I was going to make a note about where this fic (that wasn't originally meant to exist) came from but it's a little 'me-centric' and some people came here for the story! :)
So, everyone has their preferred writing and plotting styles, and me … well, I usually work on a rotational basis, where if I'm working on multiple stories, I rotate through them all so that I don't abandon anything. When I do work on a story, I like to let the characters move around in my mind a bit so I get a sense of what they're thinking, feeling, and how they'd react to plot points. Having just played around a bit in the VF fandom, I was moving on to one of the original stories I had going on the fly. I safely tucked Asami and Takaba away, and started work on an original Cold War, spy, Tom Clancy-esque story (but with a dash of romance … err, who am I kidding, with a big dose of romance) that I'd been putting together. But for some odd reason, Takaba was still sticking around in my head (as mentally unbalanced as that may sound), and he demanded the role I'd put together for one of my own characters. I tried to remove it from him, but he's quite a stubborn guy when it comes down to it. So, I guess it's his funeral (and I personally don't think Asami would approve). As a result, I've just adapted my story to work in the VF universe a bit, so I hope this works out!
Please enjoy the beginning of Ricochet. Happy reading! :)
Cheers,
G.
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Ricochet
Prologue
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Takaba Akihito awoke to a world of pain. Everything hurt. His chest hurt. His head hurt. Even his hair hurt. He was afraid to move.
What had happened? Where the fuck was he?
He was groggy, the edges of his vision lined with a fuzzy frame that obscured everything in his periphery. No, wait. His eye was swollen, he realized. He tried to blink, but his right eye just would not close properly. He cursed inwardly.
Why couldn't he remember what had brought him to this state? Why were his thoughts so muddled? What was that god-awful noise? And was he drooling?
He felt a sticky wetness against the corner of his mouth, and was pretty sure there was a telltale trail along the side of his face because something tacky pressed against the skin of his cheek where it met the floor. For some reason, he had an irrepressible urge to laugh, to outright laugh so loud that he would probably be labeled a maniacal basketcase by the unknowing observer.
Why? Why was that? Lying face down in a pool of one's own drool with a body that was beaten to hell and back was certainly no laughing matter.
Funny.
Or was it? A low chuckle escaped before he could stop it, followed by a painful hiss as his ribs protested the rumbling. Damn, he must've been involved in some jacked up shit to end up like this. Too bad he just couldn't remember a single thing about it.
He shifted his leg and let out a sigh of relief when the movement didn't cause any discomfort. At least there were parts of him still working. Gaining a little more confidence, he decided to push himself up, and met with a white hot flash of pure agony when he tried to do so.
He swore, loudly and vehemently, but his voice came out more as a croak than intelligible words. God, his lips were cracked and his throat felt drier than the Sahara. His wrist, from what he could see and feel, was twice its normal size. Even the slightest motion sent red-hot spikes of pain lancing through his body.
Broken.
There was no way he was using that anytime soon. With great effort, he rolled himself over. That simple action took so much out of him that he had to pause a moment and breathe quick, shallow breaths until the room came back into its fuzzy focus.
That was when he heard it again. That loud blast of noise. Echoing. So far away. So close.
Shots, he concluded. Guns fired, and bullets ricocheting.
Asami! It had to be Asami. His scattered brain instantly latched onto the idea of Asami like a drowning man to a lifeline. He had to get to him. He had to get to Asami because he was in trouble. He had to save him!
He didn't know how he did it, but he managed to stand up on wobbly legs. He supposed that by now, his mind had decided to cut off all communication from his body because frankly, he couldn't really feel anything.
Numb.
More gunshots sounded through his skull and he shook his head in a futile effort to stop the ringing. Step after staggering step, he made his way out of the room he'd woken up in, injured arm cradled against his side and knees threatening to give out the whole way.
The journey itself was a blur to him, an endless progression down a flickering fluorescent corridor and into an open space where the loud racket he'd been hearing hurt enough to make him wince.
His foot hit something. He looked down and saw the body of a man, limbs outstretched and with empty, glazed eyes.
Dead.
Takaba didn't recognize him. But he did recognize what the corpse held in its hand. He needed it, didn't he? Yes, he did. He needed it. He bent down and pried the gun from the dead man's fingers with his uninjured arm. He gritted his teeth at the effort that required and managed to keep moving forward.
The gunshots were so close. Asami was so close now.
As if willing him into existence, Takaba finally found the man when he turned the next corner. He retreated back behind said corner to better hide himself and leaned against the wall for support. He saw him, his lover, the bastard who'd turned his whole life upside down. He was there, partially obscured by some heavy machinery, shooting his semi-automatic with cool, calculated efficiency.
A small smile worked its way onto Takaba's lips. It felt like a dream, airy and yet, so real. Asami was here.
More shots were fired. Takaba heard thudding, and he watched as two bodies fell to the ground near him. So much fighting. So much death.
Pity.
And then he saw him … a man about to kill Asami. Gun raise and trigger ready, the would-be killer had Asami in his sights.
Asami. His Asami.
"No!" he screamed. But no sound came out of his useless throat. Instead, he raised his own gun - a cold, hard weight in his hand - and shot. The recoil sent him to the ground, the wall no longer providing the support he needed. His target crashed to the floor at the same time he did, and he let out a cry of triumph.
"Takaba!"
Asami was calling him. He looked over at his lover, running toward him with fury and panic on that usually controlled face. Asami, panicking? Had hell frozen over? Why hadn't anyone told him?
Takaba grinned stupidly at the rare sight. It was the last thing he saw before the world began to spin around and around.
Blackness.
End Prologue