The Private Wound
Summary: Artemis begins to question his intelligence when a mysterious man traps him in his own home, seemingly effortlessly. Will the fairies have to save themselves this time?
Author's Note: There are a couple of references to this fic's pre-sequel...thing in this chapter, so you may want to have read A Root and Growl first. However, if not, the references aren't really integral to understanding the story, so can be skipped over with minimum implications if desired.
I don't even know where to begin apologising for the massive wait between the cliffhanger of the last chapter and this one, so I won't, I'll just let you get on with reading it. :)
And don't forget ilex-ferox and her superhuman dedication in helping me with this chapter!
Haven City Hall, 7:13 a.m.
Wing Commander Vinyáya wasn't used to wearing a dress for so long. Neither, for that matter, was she used to being locked in an increasingly stuffy room with no-one but frightened dignitaries and airhead-socialites for company. Still, there was a first time for everything.
She was, although she would never dare admit it, rather enjoying herself. Admittedly the situation was tense and no doubt something dreadful was happening in Haven but, as one of her fellow councilmen had told her, whilst pouring her a generous glass of the finest gnommish spirit, there was little they could do inside the hall except wait for the cavalry to rescue them. At first she had been rather perturbed by his defeatist attitude but, as he continued to talk (and pour), she found herself beginning to agree with him and after he had excused himself a little while ago, she had settled, quite inelegantly, into a straight-backed chair somewhere near the bar.
It was in this condition that Trouble Kelp found her, as she was pouring yet another glass (although more of the alcohol now drenched the linen-covered table than the bottom of her glass), and mumbling good-naturedly to herself.
"Wing Commander, ma'am?" Vinyáya had been his flying instructor when he was a cadet and, despite being of almost equal ranking with her nowadays, Trouble always felt inferior when addressing her; as though she could still decide his future with a single syllable.
She peered blearily through the silver hair that had become unravelled from its top-knot. "Kelp! Would you like a glass?" The words sounded distorted, as though they were too big for her mouth to work around.
"No thank you, ma'am. I was wondering if you could tell me the other name put forward for the position of Commander? I was told that I was the only name mentioned."
Vinyáya laughed. "Of course you were the only - hic! - name. Chairman Fitzpatrick suggested Ark Sool but he was never taken seriously."
Sool...the notoriously caustic gnome with a hatred of the LEPrecon and retrieval division. He'd been made acting Commander during Opal's attempted destruction of Haven, while Root was presumed dead. It was during those five hours of Sool's rule that Trouble had seriously thought of quitting the force for the first time. There was no way he'd make a good Commander: he'd probably kowtow to the Council's every whim.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by a clammy hand on his shoulder. It was Vinyáya, pulling him closer to whisper conspiratorially into his ear. "You know, I think Fitzpatrick suggested Sool because he thought you'd be too much of a liability, like Root."
Trouble blinked and wrinkled his nose slightly. Her breath smelt strongly of alcohol, which was no surprise, really...although, Trouble was surprised by the effect it seemed to have had on her. Vinyáya used to host illicit drinking games amongst the cadets she taught. Anybody who managed to drink her under the table would be let off early morning drill for a month. It was a weighty prize, and as such obviously never won. She'd never manage to get as drunk as she was on one half-finished bottle of gnommish spirit. There was some foul play here.
"If I could just - have that - for a moment." He said, wrenching the bottle from her clutching fingers. Vinyáya made a half-hearted snatch towards the bottle before sinking back into an intoxicated stupor. He left his superior officer muttering something unintelligible to her fingers, and strode over to Foaly.
"I thought police officers weren't allowed to drink on duty?"
Trouble scowled by way of greeting, and dropped the bottle into the centaur's outstretched hands.
"No thanks; alcohol plays havoc with my balance. I have to make sacrifices to look this sophisticated."
"Your bow-tie's on backwards."
"That's irrelevant. Why've you given me a half-finished bottle of Atlantis's finest?"
Trouble took the bottle back from the centaur and removed the wadded-up tissue Vinyáya had been using in lieu of a cork. "Smell it."
"Aren't you a little old to be getting drunk just from the fumes?"
"Just smell it."
Foaly pouted, but brought the bottle to his nose and inhaled sharply. "Is that what they're calling quality spirit now? Smells like Mud man beer. Someone's not switched the bottle, have they?"
"No, the drink's still colourless. I was wondering whether you could tell if it had been spiked at all?"
The centaur sighed. "I'd like to help you Trouble, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly in a lab at the moment."
Trouble gritted his teeth. "It's just..."
"Just what?"
"Nothing. A gut feeling, that's all."
Foaly clapped the elf on the shoulder. "You know, you should listen to those, Root does, it's probably all that's kept him alive over the years. Then again, I suppose his is easier to hear than yours."
The Major laughed and Vinyáya, over on her lonely table near the bar, began to snore loudly on the table top.
Pskov, Russia, 10 minutes earlier
"So you're sure you weren't in that chute?"
Artemis dug his nails into the leather armrest before forcing the answer out. "For the third time, I was mind-wiped and under attack from a bio-bomb. I doubt I had time for a side trip down a magma chute to the centre of the earth to save an elf I didn't know existed."
Root sat back down with a huff. "Fine. I was just so sure it was you."
The pair lapsed into silence, having rarely spoken unless there was an urgent reason to do so. Both watched the massive form of Butler outside the entrance to Tarasov's apartment building, wishing he'd hurry back to the jeep and relieve the tense silence.
Root glanced at the apartment's façade. "They're nearly on the roof now. I hope Butler's got the permission for Holly to enter."
Artemis didn't reply. Although they couldn't see the Eurasian's face, Artemis guessed from the slightly exaggerated movements of the parka that was serving as a disguise that the bodyguard was having a little trouble with reticent residents.
Ring! Ring!
The new sound startled both the fairy and human. Artemis recovered first, and grabbed the fairy communicator lying on the walnut dashboard. He answered it casually, as though it were second nature to him. Root let out a disapproving humpfh.
"Holly? Are you okay?"
"Fine, aside from some interesting bruises. Mulch is checking the door now. Did anybody see us?" Holly's voice filled the jeep's interior, as clear as though she were sitting next to them.
"Not that we can tell. It's completely deserted down here. I don't like this at all." Artemis checked the road again to be certain, and caught Butler's eye. The giant manservant nodded and pushed the now-unlocked door to the apartment building open. So they had permission to enter. Everything seemed far too easy.
"Maybe we're just lucky." Holly said, but she didn't sound very hopeful. Root snorted.
"How's Mulch doing with the door? You two need to get under cover as soon as possible."
She didn't answer. Artemis checked the communicator for any faults. Finding none, Root resorted to official language to try and get a reply from his missing officer. "Short? Short! Come in Major Short!"
There was still no reply. Root let out a frustrated sigh. "We have to get in there. They could be in real trouble."
Artemis nodded, and Root noticed that he was - if possible - paler than usual. They opened the doors on either side of the jeep and clambered out. Root, shielded, ran to Artemis's side and pulled him towards the building's entrance. I hope we're not too late.
Apartment building entrance
He'd forgotten how cold it could get in Russia.
The parka was drawn up and over his shaven head, as much for warmth as for a disguise. It didn't help, of course, that he was attempting to gain entry to a building without any knowledge of the building's workings other than knowing a hostile genius lived in the twelfth apartment. However, the woman he was talking to over the intercom seemed to be unsure of her own name, let alone capable of masterminding the systematic destruction of an Irish genius, so he felt fairly confident.
"Yes, ma'am. Some of the occupants' electricity has failed. We're here to check the fuses."
"So why are you talking to me? My electricity is fine, thank you."
"No, ma'am," he spoke quickly; she had already disconnected him once. "I need you to let myself and my colleagues in before I can sort it out."
There was some incoherent mumbling from the woman for a moment, then the door lock clicked open. "Fine. But leave me alone."
A dead tone sounded down the line. She had left the speaker. Butler pushed the door open and dragged one of the decorative potted plants in the alcove in front of the door to keep it open. He then stepped back outside to let Artemis and the Commander know it was safe to enter. He caught his young charge's eye and nodded. It was now the manservant's job to remain near Tarasov's apartment, lying in wait to assist the two fairies if they needed it, and to that end, he decided to occupy the stairwell two floors below Tarasov's. Near enough to be useful, but far enough away to avoid detection.
At least, that was the plan.
He had just reached his intended platform when a faint panting sound camefrom the stairwell below. Taking no chances, he stepped into the shadows on the landing and drew his Sig Sauer. The panting grew louder, turning into a wheeze, and was accompanied by heavy footfalls. Butler clicked the safety off.
"Short! Short! What's going on? What's your status?" The voice echoed throughout the stairwell and the manservant recognised it immediately. He returned his weapon to the holster. A faint, breathy noise answered the Commander's question - he presumed the person the elf was talking to was whispering - and was followed by a muffled laugh and an angry, clearer "owch!" So Artemis was with the fairy. It was time to make his presence known. He stepped out into full view of the stairs, and was mildly surprised to only meet the gaze of his young charge.
"What are you doing in here?"
Root answered, his disembodied voice coming from somewhere to Artemis's left. "Mulch is MIA and we lost contact with Holly for a while. We thought they might be in trouble, and that we could be more use nearer to the action."
The Irish boy's bemused expression suggested otherwise, but Butler ignored it. "So you've re-established contact?"
"With Holly, yes. She's still apparently undetected, but I don't know how much longer her shield will last."
Butler brushed a hand over his shaven head; it was a simple way to relieve tension. Everything about their plan seemed to be based on little more than blind luck. He wondered whether Tarasov had succeeded where so many others had failed - to perturb his principal enough to get him to make mistakes. "Do we have any idea where Mulch is?"
"He's right here." A voice behind them answered.
The look on their faces made delaying his entrance worthwhile, Mulch thought. If only he'd brought his camera.
"Diggums!" Root's voice sounded even more threatening when the fairy himself was invisible.
"Commander! Didn't see you there."
The elf growled before shimmering back into the visible spectrum. "Why have you abandoned Major Short?"
"I got bored listening to your soldier-speak and decided to look ahead. Good thing I did, too. Tarasov's on the move."
"What?" It was Artemis who spoke this time. "Does he know we're here?"
"I don't know, it didn't exactly come up in our conversation, Artemis." The dwarf's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"I'll check it out," Butler said, drawing his Sig Sauer for the second time. "Artemis, you'd better go back to the car. This could get dangerous."
"I'm hardly going to be safer on my own in a strange town. I could be some use here."
The manservant gritted his teeth. "Just stay out of trouble. Please." With that, he began to climb the stairs. Mulch watched him leave.
"Watch the fire door, it squeaks!"
Root, meanwhile, had turned back to the communicator, and was attempting to contact Holly to warn her of the potential danger. "She's not answering again." His voice was calm, but Artemis noticed some of the colour had left his cheeks.
"I'm sure she's fine. She's still shielded. Like she said, even if he spots her on camera, he's not going to find her in person."
"Even if he does find her," Mulch said, settling on the staircase, "she's not exactly the type to just lie down and give up. I've got scars to prove it."
Artemis wrinkled his nose at the dwarf, and the trio lapsed into uneasy silence.
Silence that was quickly broken by an urgent whisper from above. "Commander!" Butler's head appeared over the balcony railing. "I need a distraction, quickly!"
Root reacted immediately, the soldier in him taking over. "What sort of distraction?"
"Something loud. I need to mask the squeaking of the door."
He nodded, and set off down the staircase. Artemis, puzzled, craned his neck to look up at his bodyguard. "What's happening up there, Butler?" But the answer was lost beneath Root beginning a countdown. Butler disappeared from view.
"Three, two, one!"
The sound of splintering wood rattled throughout the confined space of the stairway. Artemis had no idea how the metre-high elf had managed to create so much noise, but that was the least of his concerns against what was happening two floors above his head that would require a distraction of that volume.
LEP Police Plaza, 7:20 a.m.
"Corporal Kelp?"
Grub jumped at the sudden voice, spilling sim-coffee over several important documents. "Who's that?"
"My name's Laurel, sir. I'm a technician." A window opened on the Corporal's computer, displaying a video feed of a pasty elf sitting far too close to the camera. "You told us to inform you if anything interesting was to appear on the video feeds?"
"Yes, yes. Well?"
"I think you'd better come and see this for yourself, Corporal."
Pskov, Russia, 9:19 a.m. (plus two GMT)
Holly's head was spinning. She was standing in the bare, dingy hallway of a Russian apartment complex, shielded, and yet some jumped-up Mud man had managed to sneak up behind her undetected and was pressing the cold barrel of a gun right into the back of her neck. Training caught up with her, and it was with slightly clammy fingers - her only admission of the fear she felt at what she was about to do - that she felt for the raised self-destruct button on her helmet. Once pushed, acid would be released from a sealed layer beneath the plastic of the helmet, eating into the device and destroying it in seconds.
The safety regulations for the helmet dictated that no fairy should be wearing the helmet when the button was pushed, as the acid would not discriminate between plastic and flesh, but it was an unwritten agreement that, following the Artemis Fowl disaster, no fairy should allow themselves to be caught alive if possible, and that led the helmets to be nicknamed 'suicide machines'.
Her fingers slipped on the no-friction helmet. So this is how it ends. Not with a bang, but with a violently acidic compound.
"Drop the gun."
Holly blinked.
"I said, drop the gun."
The barrel that had, a moment ago, been burrowing into Holly's neck was suddenly removed and a heavy clattering sound indicated that the insistent voice had been obeyed. She turned gingerly, in time to see the massive form of Butler frog-marching an unknown man, wearing what appeared to be skiing goggles, into Evgeny Tarasov's apartment.
"Major Short!"
Holly blinked again as her red-faced Commander approached, eyes focused on a spot roughly ten feet away from where she was actually standing. She unshielded.
"What happened?"
Root pinched the bridge of his nose. "We're not sure. It appears Tarasov has had more contact with the fairies than we thought. Those goggles weren't just a fashion statement."
"LEP filters?"
"It looks that way."
The Major sighed. Nothing was ever as simple as it appeared. "So now what?"
"We let Butler spend some time talking to our new friend." Artemis appeared from the staircase, followed by Mulch, a faux-concerned look on his face.
Holly grimaced at the meaning. "Is that really necessary?"
"There's nothing else we can do. Tarasov is far more prepared than I anticipated, and if things really are as bad as you say in Haven, we don't have time to figure out Tarasov's involvement for ourselves."
The elf said nothing, but her look was mutinous.
"Well," Mulch said, stretching his arms above his head. "As long as we're stopping here awhile, we may as well check out what Tarasov has in his fridge."
Haven City Hall, 7:22 a.m.
Something had gone wrong.
Not that he could say he was all that surprised. Humans were unreliable at the best of times, and when their pride got involved, they may as well be written off. He had hoped for slightly more time, but in the end his own plan was secondary, and there would be plenty of time in the future to bring it to fruition. For now, he had to focus on completing the part he was being paid for. Two thirds had already been executed without fault, and the final part required no more than a bottle of spirit laced with sedatives. Now all he had to do was spark off a little mob mentality. He walked over to one of the more honourable council members, sitting with his wife - a notorious gossip - and a researcher for PPTV, the prominent underground television channel.
"Good evening ladies," he inclined his head at the wife and then the researcher, "Councillor."
"Good, Bentwood? This is hardly my idea of a good evening."
The pixie smiled, sliding into an empty seat. "Quite. I wonder what's taking Mr. Foaly so long to get the doors open? They are, after all, his own invention."
The researcher lifted her head. "I'm sure he's doing his best. After all, we should be grateful they work this well - he designed them to keep City Hall secure, and they're working wonderfully."
Bentwood scowled, "but of course, Miss. Caballine. However, in my experience, Foaly never releases one of his own inventions unless there is some design flaw for which he can create an upgrade."
Caballine looked shocked.
"Anyway, it's not Foaly's lack of ingenuity that worries - or, in fact, surprises - me. Other than Major Kelp's flashy attempt to keep us complacent by destroying a shoe, we appear to have been let down by the LEP. Wing Commander Vinyáya has passed out on a table and soon-to-be-Chairman Root and his protégé, Major Short, are nowhere to be found."
The councillor sat up. "You're right of course, Bentwood. Root has never been with his beloved LEP in a crisis - remember Cudgeon's coup? He's always off playing the hero, making others look like fools."
The pixie nodded almost reverently, inwardly grinning. His final phase would be even easier to complete than he had imagined. The council was full of malcontents and ex-LEP Commanders gone to seed, jealous of Root's continuing adventures. The gossipy wife was already looking for her equally chatty friends and soon the entire hall would be alive with suspicion and paranoia. A rebellion against the LEP. No wonder Bentwood had chosen a Russian human.
Ooh, the intrigue!
No? Nevermind.
Reviewers who forgive me for the torturous wait for this chapter get their own snazzy set of fairy-viewing goggles. They're also rather handy for deflecting sun glare in the himalayas. So it's the best of both worlds, really. :)
