Title: Emerald Flame: Coast City Getaway (3/8)
Author: Cyclone
Feedback: Please be gentle.
Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.
Rating: Just a little bad language.
Spoilers: Anything and everything.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Cortana has a suggestion on how Xander spends his suspension.
Author's Note: I suppose it was a matter of time before I broke away from the Emerald title theme. Despite my best efforts, I simply could not figure out a good title for this one that fit the naming theme. Oh, well.
Michael Knight didn't quite know what to make of Alexander Beacon. It was quite apparent, for example, that his "assistant" had neglected to mention KITT to him. So far, they had spoken of Michael's official past, including the few declassified parts of his service with FLAG, and Alexander's need for an "investigative specialist with an open mind," whatever that meant.
"So, I guess my question is," Michael said, "who are you really?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"What I mean is," Michael clarified, "your assistant back-traced me after she got caught creating your identity. So who are you really?"
Xander steepled his hands in front of his face as he considered how to answer that. Finally, he leaned back and asked, "What's in a name, Michael Long?"
Michael froze at that. "Now where did you hear that name?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild.
"Cortana's the best at what she does," Xander replied evenly, "so I am very well informed." He paused for a moment, then, with a wry smile, he added, "At least on things she bothers to tell me about, anyway."
Michael grinned involuntarily at that. He could relate to that. Before he could press the matter, though, he heard the rumble of a car engine pulling into his driveway outside.
"So, Michael," Xander said, "are you expecting any other guests today?"
"No," Michael said, "I'm not." Both of them rose to their feet, and Michael headed for the front door, his guest three steps behind him. The doorbell rang, and Michael opened the door, revealing a large man and a teenaged boy.
"Hello, Michael," the man greeted him.
"Dutch?" Michael returned the greeting, shocked. He shook his head, remembering his old friend's name change. "Sorry, John. What are you doing here?"
"Actually, it's Christopher Chance now. I'm working freelance again." He clamped a hand on the teenager's shoulder and said, "This is my client, and my safehouse has been compromised."
"And so you decided to lead them here? !" Michael goggled.
"Don't worry. I made sure I lost them," Chance assured him. "They'd practically need magic to track us here."
"That's what you said about the safe house," the thirteen-year-old pointed out.
Xander cocked an eyebrow. "So, what are we up against?" he asked mildly, stepping up next to Michael.
Chance frowned. "Who are you?"
"Call me Xander. I'm here interviewing Michael for a job." He paused, then added, "And it occurs to me, this is exactly the sort of thing that caught our attention, a lone crusader in a dangerous world, making a difference."
Michael shot him a dirty look.
"Hey, kid," Xander said quietly, taking a seat near John, who was going through the arsenal Chance had brought with them.
"Don't call me 'kid,'" John shot back. "You can't be that much older than me."
"I'm older than I look," Xander replied. "You're John Connor, aren't you?"
John stopped for a moment in his reassembly of the .45 Long Slide, then continued on. After another long moment, he asked, "So what if I am?"
Xander shrugged. "So nothing. I did a lot of research on how you and your mother blew up Cyberdyne when I had to blow up my high school next year."
John paused again as he processed that. He looked up.
"Time travel?"
"Kinda."
"I hate time travel."
"Me too, kid," Xander said with a nod. "Me too." Shaking his head, he walked over to where Chance and Michael were discussing their next move. "By the way, Chance... do you have a brother?"
The big man tensed up, just enough of a reaction to confirm Xander's suspicions. He smirked. "Thought so. Lemme guess, name of Tasker, lives in DC?"
Chance's expression melted into genuine confusion as he shook his head. "No."
"Huh," Xander muttered. "That's weird. You look almost identical." He shook his head. "Never mind. What's our next move? I'm pretty sure I can scare up some additional assets if we need them."
"You?" Chance snorted. "What are you even doing here, kid? You've got no stake in this."
"Someone's gunning for a thirteen-year-old boy," Xander said flatly. "What makes you think I'd turn my back on that? Where's his mother, anyway?"
"Don't know," Chance said with a shrug. "She contacted me by phone. She's in the area, and the same goons are after her, but that's all I know for sure."
"Right," Xander said. He pulled out his phone. "Cortana, get Dwayne on the line." Pause. "Dwayne, it's me. Looks like you're getting an early start." Pause. "Protection detail, a woman named Sarah Connor. Cortana can give you the details. Track her down, keep her safe." Pause. "No, she won't be expecting you. In fact, she'll probably take a couple of potshots at you." Pause. "No, I'm not kidding." Pause. "And that's why I hired you. I'll keep in touch."
"Well?"
"Patience, Mister Crane," the old man said. "My boys will find them, and when they do..."
"When they do, your boys will have reinforcements," Crane interrupted. "I've brought in some extra muscle."
"Fair enough."
"You're really popular today, Michael," Xander commented, his fingers parting the venetian blinds so he could see through the window. "Black van across the street, tinted windows. Could they be more obvious?"
"Do you want competent bad guys?" Chance asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well," Xander shrugged, "it might not feel so insulting if they knew what they were doing."
"Could be a decoy," John mused.
The four people paused a moment to consider that, and the silence that followed was broken by a faint click from the back of the house.
"How come it's the kid who figured it out?" Xander complained.
"You're not exactly an old-timer yourself," Michael snorted.
"At least I have a valid driver's license." Which, technically, he did. The fact that the license in question was issued to the entirely fictional Alexander Beacon was beside the point. "We should move. Now."
They burst into motion even as the door was kicked open. A flash-bang flew into the room, and Chance scooped it up and hurled it back. "Let's go!"
The flash-bang detonated just outside, stunning the gunmen, and Chance barrelled through, knocking them both over, the other three quickly following after. Michael paused by a control panel in the wall, innocuous and resembling nothing so much as a standard home security control panel, opening it and extracting a wafer-thin component and slipping it into his pocket, passing John as the boy paused to scoop up one of the gunmen's MP5s, cradling it in his arms like a professional.
There was something seriously wrong with that.
They split off, each of them instinctively making for their own car (or, in John's case, the car he arrived in). There was a thunderous roar just as Michael reached his lovingly-restored sky blue 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air. The car rocked in front of him, a fist-sized hole sprouting in the side as a high-caliber anti-materiel round bored through the engine block. He looked over and saw the sniper, the rifle resting on a bipod on the roof of a car.
John raised the MP5 and returned fire. The bullets arced low, catching two of the gunmen in the legs and stitching across the door panels of the car the sniper stood behind. The rifle bucked and roared again. The second round smashed through the bullet resistant armor of Chance's truck, plowing through the rear axle.
"Get in!" Xander called, yanking Chance and John and shoving them toward the open door of his Banshee. Michael jumped and ducked as gunfire from the backyard riddled his Bel-Air with holes, then pulled open the passenger door of the Banshee and climbed in, just as Xander slid into the driver's seat, John and Chance safely in the back.
Time seemed to slow in the next few seconds as Michael saw the muzzle of the anti-materiel rifle flare again, this time aimed straight at Xander. With their attention riveted on the anti-materiel rifle, no one saw the flicker of green light from Xander's ring. Even before the sound of the gunshot reached them, something whirred and clanked, as armored shutters unfolded across the windshield and windows. The interior of the car lit up with an image display of the outside even as the bullet struck the now-armored windshield, ricocheting harmlessly.
"Okay," Michael admitted, "I'm impressed."
For his part, the car's owner was staring at the dashboard, fighting the urge to break out into giggles. "'Impressed'? Are you kidding me? That was awesome!"
He shifted the car into gear and stomped on the gas, swerving around Chance's truck and fish-tailing out of the driveway.
"Cortana," Xander said as they roared down the street, "just what is this car made of?"
"It's encased in a two millimeter layer of molyfused coltan hyperalloy; the armored shutters are made of the same material," a disembodied female voice answered through the car speakers. "I was unable to acquire sufficient quantities of trinium."
Michael's eyebrows quirked. 'Molyfused'?
John's eyes widened. 'Hyperalloy'?
Xander paused and considered that. He murmured absent-mindedly, "...that's not Earth-tech, is it?"
Chance's eyes narrowed. 'Earth-tech'?
"It is now. I filed the patents last week."
"Just how much of this car is actually spec?" Xander prodded.
"Well..." Cortana hedged.
"Is there anything left of the original car here?"
"The interior, frame, and dashboard. Well, most of the dashboard."
Xander groaned. "What else did you do?"
"Reinforced and electrified chassis and body, a high-speed ground-effect configuration, a full sensor and communications suite with virtual reality heads-up display, high-powered electric motors with rocket-assist turbo boost, chameleon skin, remote operation capability, smoke dispensors, run-flat tires, all-around airbags, and power windows and locks."
"We are going to have a long talk about this later, Cortana."
The man named Crane walked through the house and looked around.
"So," he said, "you lost them."
"I'm afraid so, sir," the man who had led the capture team answered. "They were... better prepared than we thought, and their vehicle was... well-protected."
"I see," Crane nodded. "A beach house owned by one Michael Knight," he mused aloud, "where there just happens to be an indestructible supercar." He looked around, searching for something out of place... and found it. The security control panel was open, its circuitry exposed.
"Search the house," he ordered, "and tear down this wall. I want every piece of electronic equipment in this building stripped out for Mister Lumic's research before the police get here."
Author's Postscript:
Trouble doesn't find hellmouths. Trouble finds Xander.