This is my Quest to follow that star,
No matter how hopeless, no matter how far,
To fight for the right
Without question or pause,
To be willing to march into hell
For a heavenly cause!
— Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (Don Quixote)
They were playing Futures when he arrived.
It was a commonly held belief that the night shift was the best one. Even though they were trying to clean a rather large paint stain (how the hell had that gotten there?) off Lars's hardwood floors at half past midnight, they could speak without being interrupted, work more slowly without being told to hurry up, someone had just made a mess.
"Judging by the way that strand of hair curls in the opposite direction than the rest," Fifteen said, with a dramatic flourish of his rag, "you will go on to become an Elvis impersonator. But a bad one. Then you will write a book about this Epic Failure and make millions of dollars off of it."
It might have been the late hour that had Twelve laughing, or maybe it was the tension and pressure of the last few days. Or the image of herself dressing in sequins.
"What about me?" he asked hopefully.
"Well." Twelve surveyed him, trying to think up something suitable ridiculous. "Your low height indicates that—"
The radio chime went off. The two slaves froze, wondering what had happened. The bell never went off at night unless it was an absolute emergency…
Twelve heard the feet pounding upstairs. Like the drums, drums in the deep that her father had joked about—was it three years ago now? Two? She couldn't remember.
They stood at attention as Lord Lars came down the stairs. He was still in his t-shirt and jeans, and Twelve wondered if he had never gone to bed at all. He ignored the slaves for the time being, rushing to the radio. "Well?"
"I have three," said the crackly voice on the other end. "Two alive, on dead."
Three what?
It was rare that Lars looked truly happy. But now, he looked like the kid that scored the winning goal in the final. Proud, pleased, relieved. He looked like the kid that had bet money on the game and would now go rub it in everyone's face.
"Bring them in." Lars said, before turning. And then the kid was gone, replaced by the slightly crazed man. "Slaves. Come."
They looked at each other for a second, and then dropped their sponges back in the bucket before following.
The grinding sound over the house made her finch as she reached up to cover her ears. What the hell? For a second, she thought they were being bombed, but no, that wouldn't make sense. That wasn't a reason Lars would be happy.
Fifteen opened the front doors, revealing a helicopter neatly landed on the thin strip of pavement in the well-tended garden. The trees were just silhouettes in the dark .Blots on the skyline, hiding the house from the road and the water…
It took her a moment to realize that one of the trees was moving.
Wait, no, that wasn't a tree. It was a man, she realized a second later. A man in a uniform, probably pilot, though it was hard to tell in the dark.
"Well?" Lars asked, excitement showing. "Where are they?"
"In the back, here…"
He turned, leading them back towards the copter. Lars gestured for Twelve and Fifteen to go ahead of him.
Why?
She didn't have time to ponder Lars's behavior. She was too scared, too nervous about what they were going to find in the helicopter. Have three. Three nuclear bombs? Three rebels? Three kittens? Lars motioned for Fifteen to open the door .
Three bodies?
She stared into the cabin. There were more than three bodies, though it was too dark to count them all. In various grotesque positions, some looking as they were no longer whole. Twelve jumped back.
No. She was not going to throw up.
Not when the pilot turned on the light and she saw all the blood. Not when she realized that might be human remains on the wall. Or the human hand, just lying there, a foot away. The burn marks that covered another man's skin. Not. Going. To. Puke. Especially not when she saw the kid with the knife in her back. Or the light-haired body next to her. She tried to swallow, but there was no saliva left in her mouth.
Clearly she was hallucinating. Clearly she was in some other world, on where it was actually possible for Hunters to be killed by mortals, where life could change instantly in a few seconds, where it was actually possible for Eden Emmerson to be dead.
Lars whistled, glancing from body to body, counting. "You're the only one that made it back?"
The man's face was pale. "Yes. Will—he made it out of the cabin, he locked himself in the front with me, but he was already dying…" There was a sadness to his voice, and Twelve couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. That would be terrifying.
"But you got em."
Dead.
Emmerson.
Dad. Dad's still ok though. He wasn't with her. If he was dead they'd know. I he was there would be big news about it right?
"I did." The pilot sounded a little more proud, now. "We would have been back here ages ago but I was taking detours. To help with your diversion."
Fifteen poked Twelve in the side, his eyes wide with horror. He mouthed something, but she couldn't tell what. What little night vision she had was ruined by the light right next to them.
"Slaves." Lars ordered. "Take them in."
Twelve bowed. "Which ones?"
He sneered. "The live ones, you idiot."
Live—
Some were alive?
She wondered why she was relieved. It was better for them if they were dead.
Because the impossible had happened. Hunters had been caught. Visions of the Information Acquisition room flashed in her mind.
"Of course." Fifteen bowed again, then leaned forward. Twelve followed, assuming that the ones that looked the least bloody—Emmerson and the net one—were alive. Fifteen began rolling the lieutenant towards the door. She was almost at a point where they could pick her up when she kicked at Fifteen's hand.
Everyone froze, waiting. Two Mississippis, three Mississippis. But she didn't move again.
All the stories about the most famous rebels had passed through many mouths before they reached the slaves, and so Twelve had expected them to be a little exaggerated. But through them, she had forgotten what she Emmerson was—a kid. A kid in a black hoodie and jeans full of holes.
Still.
Her fingers were moving a little. Twelve gulped.
"I'll take her," she mouthed to Fifteen. Because, well… it was a Hunter, and she was less likely to blow up a girl carrying her than a guy.
Hopefully.
Maybe.
Still.
Jesus, this girl could kill someone with a hipbone. The hoodie suggested someone much larger, but she couldn't be more than ninety pounds.
Was that how they were caught? Lars's plan to starve them out seemed to be a success.
Dad. They couldn't all starve. They couldn't… there was no way that he was already dead right?
Behind her, Fifteen grunted as he tried to carry the other Hunter but touch her as little as possible. ("In case they can smell guy," he would tell Twelve later.)
"Mmph."
Halfway to the house, Twelve froze. That hadn't come from Emmerson's mouth right?
"Hurry up!" Lars barked behind her. "I'm cold."
Twelve bowed a little and kept going. On the one hand, if Emmerson could wake up and escape, that would be good. For the resistance, for her father. On the other, Twelve would probably end up dead.
If she was a good person, she thought. If she was a good person she would slow down. She would try and get Emmerson to wake up before they reached the door. Or she would pinch her nose, cover her mouth, do something to kill her before Lars could.
The thumb crusher. The rack. The Chair. The burner. The HOCD. And her mind was spinning, spinning, and she was going to throw up but she couldn't, couldn't. And Emmerson was moving more now, mumbling, trying to shake off the effects of the drugs or gas or whatever they had used…
"In." Lars barked, watching the Hunter with his eyes narrowed. He didn't have the same look of joy anymore. Now it was more…
…surely it couldn't be fear?
All at once, the kid—Twelve couldn't think of her as anything else, because she was at least five years older—stopped moving.
Good?
Good, she thought, stepping through the door and back into the great foyer. That meant she was less likely to be killed.
She believed this right up until she saw the grey flash of an eye.
Everything after happened at once, so fast that even later she couldn't put it together. Emmerson had twisted so violently, snapping her legs back, breaking free of Twelve's grip and rolling away. Twelve stumbled, falling onto her back. A scream of NO! came from above her, and Lars whipped out his sword.
Silence came after, as everyone sized up the situation.
Emmerson, crouching by the piano, eyes darting from the other Hunter to Lars to the pilot and back again.
Twelve, carefully getting to her feet, trying not to look like a target.
Fifteen, trying to look like he hadn't just been carrying Emmerson's friend.
Lars, looking furious.
Emmerson was the first to break the silence. "Hey, Kunhyi. Long time no see." Her voice was flat. Somewhat sarcastic. Did she realize what she had woken up into? Did she understand what was going on?
Her hand darted from the empty sheath on her hip to the dagger loop on her belt and from there to her shoulder, never looking away from Lars and the pilot. Twelve hesitated, and then took a few steps away. Fifteen followed her.
If she had ever imagined herself in a situation with Emmerson around, it was one where there were lots of other potential targets. A crowded square, maybe. Not… here.
The lone chime of the clock made Twelve jump, convinced that it was a gunshot—but wait, guns were outlawed. It was part of Kronos's plan to move humanity to a more controllable spot.
The last time that clock had chimed, she and Fifteen were telling futures. She had never gotten around to telling his. Fifteen minutes ago? It was a lifetime.
And below them, Six and Ten slept, not knowing…
Ten.
Kill him, she thought furiously, staring at Emmerson. The Olympian was still crouched next to the piano. Twelve wondered if anyone had even breathed yet, much less attacked. Kill Lars. Please.
"Make a move against us," Lars drawled, taking a casual step forward and drawing his sword, "and we'll cut the little one into pieces. Don't look like that. It wouldn't kill her. She can live without her feet."
The little one. Twelve glanced at her. She was still unconscious, and seemed to have no plans to return to the world anytime soon. Light brown hair, thin face—she couldn't be any older than twelve. Maybe thirteen.
"Or," the pilot suggested, smirking at the trapped look on Emmerson's face, "we could give her to our men. They might like—"
It was as if someone set off a strobe light. A white light flickered, and then Emmerson was up, up in the air. At least ten feet high, shooting towards him. It was almost cat like the way she did so, landing with her feet on his chest, fingers in his eyes.
The crack of the meeting between his head and the floor made Twelve flinch.
Too fast. Everything was happening too fast. They always did slow motion in movies, but in real life, it was more like speed-up. Suddenly there was a fourteen year old squatting on his chest.
The pilot fumbled for the knife attached to his hip, but a smaller hand was there first. Pale fingers wrapped around the hilt.
His own knife prodded his face.
Twelve had to blink a couple times to make sure that it was all real, that this had actually happened.
Fifteen grabbed her hand, pulling her farther back.
It was almost random, the swords, the blood, the terror, on the backdrop of grandeur, of the shiny shiny piano Lars hardly ever played, the expensive works of art.
"Eumph!" The man grunted as he tried to sit up, but Emmerson stuck two of her fingers into his eyes. He yelped a little in pain, and she pressed the dagger harder against his neck. He had only been down for what, five seconds? Maybe time did slow down after all.
She looked away for the inevitable. The blood, the scream.
This was war. It didn't matter that he had been the only survivor of his crew, or that he had knocked on the door ten minutes ago thinking he was safe. It didn't matter that the media would show in depth coverage of his funeral, with close up shots of the sobbing family.
Crying family. There would be the same for the dead girl in the helicopter. But this time, the crying family was Emmerson. Grieving, anyway. She didn't look like she had ever cried in her life.
His blood leaked all over the hardwood floor. In one corner of her mind, Twelve registered that they would have a lot more cleaning to do later.
The man yelled one more time, then went still.
Without missing a beat, Emmerson turned around, flinging the bloody knife at Lars. He jumped out of the way, hardly seeming surprised. Clang of metal on metal, a knife on flesh, and Lars's sword went flying. It landed a few feet away. A bridge between the pair of fighters and the silent slaves.
Lars and Emmerson stood, facing each other.
One sword. Two people. No one moved.
Emmerson was the one who finally made a break for it.
Lord Lars went after her in a football dive. She spun around at the last second, only to be knocked over backwards, Lars attempting to pin her.
Flinching at the close contact, she reached up, calmly plugging his nose. Lars shook his head violently, trying to break free, but she must have had strong fingers. Her other fist landed in his mouth.
Blood fell out, caressing Emmerson's skin.
And they stayed there, pushing, pulling, kicking. The weapon still lay several feet away.
Pick it up, Twelve told herself. Get the sword. Pick it up.
Could she? It was so close. No problem. No problem. But her feet wouldn't move, locked down as they were…
Emmerson rolled them over, still clawing at Lars's face as he clung to her elbow. Then around again, and Lars came up, grunting with exertion. They looked like they could be hugging as they rolled, farther and farther across the room.
It couldn't have been more than a minute later that Emmerson broke free of the dance, getting back to her feet, but to Twelve it was a lifetime.
Pick it up!
I can't!
Pick it up. Kill him. Kill him!
"Where are your Hunters?" Lars taunted, spitting a tooth out of his mouth as he stood. "Where are your sisters, Emmerson?" His words were slurred, as though he was drunk. An insane gleam had crept into his eyes.
"Let's see," Emmerson said, voice flat, cold. Detached. "One is lying in your helicopter. Dead."
Lars took a step forward. She didn't move.
"Another, hiding, slowly starving to death. She can hardly stand anymore."
Step.
"Five. Their bodies in mass graves. Or still rotting on Olympus. One with an arm missing. The second decapitated. The third, strangled. Lydia, thrown from a tree, crushing her skill. My lieutenant…" Her eyes burned as Lars took another step forward. Still, she didn't move. "Blown to pieces as she tried to help her family."
"At some point, I'll do the math and figure out how many that leaves." Lars said. He made to take another step towards her, but turned at the last second, diving for the sword.
The white light was reflected around the room, the bang making the floor shake and the sword fly. Fly, away from Lars, crashing through the window, swallowed by the darkness outside.
Through all of this, the little Hunter didn't move.
Fifteen squeezed Twelve's hand again, reminding her to breath. You did that with your lungs, right?
An enraged roar—"My window!"—and Lars went for her. And again they were down, rolling across the floor.
Kicking. Clawing. Bleeding. Neither showing any signs of fear. Getting closer to the wall, to the cabinet, the syringes—backup weapons, he called them—that Twelve had just cleaned. And Twelve saw what he was going to do.
No don't don't. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe, she was scared, why was she so scared…
Lars sprang up at the last second, opening the door.
Emmerson seemed surprised for a second, but then she was on her feet. The cabinet door shut, and Twelve opened her mouth to—to what? Warn her? Of what? Emmerson would know what the needle was.
He went for her throat, but her hands came up. For a moment, it looked like they were arm wrestling. Bracing against each other, like two kids on the playground that want to go different places.
It wasn't much of a fight though. He had, after all, been eating regularly. With an ooph, Eden was forced back against the wall. Twelve wasn't sure where she got the energy to still try and hold his wrist back, but she only managed for a few seconds. The needle bit her in the arm.
"Fuck." There was more hate and venom in that word than Twelve had thought possible as the Hunter slumped back, kicking blindly. Sinking. Finally going still.
O-o
Instead of going down to the sleeping room, she went up to the closet. The only place in the house where they were sure there weren't any bugs. The place where Fifteen had shared the chocolate and news of Zoe Verita those years ago. The place where he told Twelve about the storm that had wiped out Verita's base and when her body was found. The place where they could go to talk without being overheard.
She was sure he would follow her and she was not disappointed. Fifteen gently closed the closet door behind them.
"You all right?"
She had just seen how full Lars's dungeon had become in the week since Legweak began to crumble. Listened to their shocked whispers as they brought in the one they thought would never be captured. Had had to close the door on Eden Emmerson's unconscious form. Had a detailed vision of her father there. No, she was not bloody well ok.
Neither of them said a word. Just tried to put off the truth for as long as possible.
O-o
And thus concludes a ridiculously long chapter. I tried to cut it down. It was originally way longer. Why? I have no idea. *headdesk*
Anyway, FM voting is still up, as are D23 submissions. Vote TYOOT. *mutters about how I'd rather lose to anyone but Xed*
Fish: No me gusta ketchup. And XD yeah it is.
U: I can't spell. Really? Please tell me where they updated the dictionary because I'm fairly certain that at least 99% of my words are correct. Also, it's hard to imagine how I could fail to portray in character characters that I made up. And first you said it was a good plot and now you're saying it's cliché? Make up your mind, revenge flamer.
Moonrise: Cardboard God, you mean? Yeah the original beginning was sort of like that. It isn't anymore though. And thanks!
Fana: Yeah. Poor guy. He might matter later, I haven't decided.
Morganic: I get that feeling sometimes XD And thanks. Yep, Rio is dead dead dead.
Draco: sorry. Guilt tripping is my job. And I hadn't even thought of that. But that is a Theia thing innit :D :D And it's come up before. It sometimes works but she can't control it. .
Shrrg: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Hayley: I didn't have him anywhere else. He's just a dude.
YES! NOW I FINALLY KNOW WHO!: I've found you on inkpop XDD and is that a fanfic?
Hp: aw. I'm sorry. But thanks :D
Peter: Yeah. I'm more than halfway through my timeline but there was some stuff I was going to add so yeah. I don't know when it'll end. Pretty soon. Hopefully before NaNO but it's not looking optimistic. Maybe Christmas. :D
