A Spark

How long had he waited?

The coils whirred quietly beneath his levicar as it idled just outside the gates of the enemy's estate. How long had he waited for this, to finally gain the upper hand? How long had he waited for his contact, his gamble, to provide the damning evidence he needed against that man? There would be no denying his crimes now. The truth about the Civil War, about the Council…there was no escaping this. It would bury that bastard and anyone who had ever helped him commit his atrocities. It was as if he were standing before the gates of hell with a key in his hand. To open them would be to unleash the truth upon Lylat. There would be repercussions. The system would burn. But he was going to drag that bastard kicking and screaming to the very threshold and smile as he cast him down into his bloody damnation. If the federation must burn along with him, then so be it.

The gates groaned loudly as they swung inward, opening to the darkened estate beyond them, and Cromwell stepped out of the car. He wanted to march into his enemy's bastion a conqueror, not ride in like a guest. He was so caught up in his triumph that he hardly noticed his men step out behind him in the cool, crisp night air.

Sixteen years. Sixteen long years of clawing and scraping his way up from the bottom of one of the most insignificant houses on Corneria all the way to a bitter, blood-stained seat on the council. Six years spent in the fleet as a young officer, building his reputation. Seven years in the Bureau, eagerly making contacts, earning favors, and gathering secrets. The last three he had spent propelling himself through the political arena, pulling every string, calling in every favor, and using every secret to bribe, blackmail, and backstab his way to power. Sixteen years of deception, maneuvering step by agonizing step until he was in position to strike. There had been setbacks, of course. Losing the position of Consulate General to that insufferable Peppy Hare was one. Failing to intercept the Cipher in Sargasso was another. Either would have given him significant leverage, but despite all that, the time had come. It would all end tonight. Tonight, Lucile's death would be avenged.

Cromwell strode across the open lawn of the Touvier estate, the wet grass swishing in the darkness with each footfall. Each step brought him closer to the only lit window, to the light shining out from the room on the top floor where that bastard was being held, and oh, how he savored each and every one. The thought that he had made the man a prisoner in his own home was a small pleasure, but it was only a garnish for what was to come. He was going to look into Jacques' eyes, and he was going to watch the life pour out of him. Slowly. But not before he exposed the wretch for what he was, not until he made him watch all his plans, his entire house, everything he had worked for crumble and lay barren at his feet.

The thought put a vicious smile on his lips and a bit more pep into his step as he walked up to the two men standing guard at the estate's large double doors. His men. Men he trusted with his life. They opened the doors for him, and a chill ran up his spine as he stepped across the threshold. Once inside, he heard the doors close behind him.

His excitement must have shown. Julia, his mole in the CIA, one of the keys to his victory, smiled a conspiratory smile as she met him at the base of a set of twin spiraling staircases.

His own satisfaction wavered slightly at the sight of her. Julia. She looked like her – so much like Lucile. But her dark hair seemed to whisper of seduction and danger, where Lucile's was a thing of depth and comfort. Her green eyes danced as Lucile's had, but Julia's seemed unnerving, like the dance of a viper whereas Lucile's had been like a leaf dancing on the wind...

Some years ago he had sent out feelers to find someone he could use within the Councilate Intelligence Agency, back when he was working in the Bureau. Julia had appeared like a ghost, like the agency spook she was. Her appearance had always made him uncomfortable. She was like a shadow of his past, a twisted vision of Lucile's beauty, a cruel reminder of what he'd lost. Despite all this, she had been exactly what he'd needed, and they had worked together toward tonight's end ever since. She was his double agent. Someone close to Touvier. Someone he needed in order to get around Balefort and its infuriating adherence to ethics.

"What's wrong, Gregory?" She asked, raising a single eyebrow quizzically, "This is your moment. You should be pleased."

His mood taking a turn for the worse, Cromwell just nodded. It would all be over soon…

"But is this really your moment, Gregory?" a sharp, cynical voice taunted him from the darkness at the top of the stairs.

Before Cromwell's stomach could finish clenching, Julia drew her pistol and fired two shots into the men behind him, her smile evaporating into a mask of ruthless discipline. As he stood in dumb shock, his shaken brain managed to wonder why the men outside weren't kicking the doors down at the sound of blaster fire. He felt numb as his previous assurance shattered. How was this happening? Where were the other's he'd left inside to watch the old man? Why weren't the men outside coming to his assistance?

Then his mind snapped back into action. He pushed down his shock and forced himself to think as he stared down the barrel of Julia's pistol. Those weren't his men outside. They had been, once. He had recruited them, trained them, worked with them. He thought he'd known them well enough to trust them. He'd been too close, too absorbed in his vengeance, his prize dangling so tantalizingly before him. He'd been careless. He wondered if the others had turned on him as well, if they'd been killed, or whether they had ever been his to begin with.

"Bastard," he growled, not at Julia, but at the man standing in the darkness above him.

"Come now Gregory," Touvier said as he walked, slowly, patiently down the stairs, his cane tapping on each step, "You played this game remarkably well. I haven't been challenged like this since I was a young man."

Jacques wore a smug smile on his wrinkled lips as he came into the light of the hall. Once at the bottom, he reached behind himself and tapped at the small of his back with a groan, "Well, a younger man, at least."

He came close, but stayed just behind Julia and her blaster, just out of reach. Cromwell's fury threatened to choke him as it burned up his neck, through his skull and into his eyes. The raw hatred pulsing though his veins with every beat of his sinking heart told him that nothing could stop him from killing this man! All the while the weight of Cromwell's own firearm on his hip was maddening as he attempted to gauge whether he could get off a shot before Julia could kill him. But, against it all, his forty-four years of life weighed in and told him without a shadow of a doubt that the woman in front of him would shoot faster, that she would aim for that space between the eyes that went directly to the brain and that she was very unlikely to miss. It told him to bide his time and to hope for an opening.

Touvier's smirk gradually dissipated, but his disdain was transferred to a sneer. "It's a pity. You had potential, Cromwell. I had hopes for you."

"My only hope for the last sixteen years has been to watch you die, old man," Cromwell growled, bitterly.

Jacques' eyebrows went up in surprise, and he looked off into the distance as if remembering something. "Sixteen years?" he asked, wistfully, as he leaned forward on his cane, "I see. Did you lose someone close to you that night?"

"You know that I did!" he barked, lips curling back to expose his fangs, "Lucile was EVERYTHING to me!"

The withered old man didn't look at him. He just shook his head.

"Collateral," Touvier said with an empty, unfeeling expression, "is the cost of progress. And you must forgive me, but I don't remember the names of each and every body I've had to step over to achieve my ends."

Cromwell's teeth ground down against each other as he fought to urge to reach for his blaster with every ounce of resolve he possessed.

Something like remorse flashed across Touvier's eyes as the old man turned to stare into Cromwell's own, piercingly, as if looking for something.

"Vengeance," he said, after a moment, "that is the name of your poison, Gregory. It has consumed you, and it has delivered you here to your undoing."

It was too much. His arm moved involuntarily, but before his hand even touched the grip of his pistol, firm hands grabbed his wrists from behind. His legs were kicked out from under him, and he was forced to his knees by men dressed in CDF uniforms. His pistol was removed from its holster, and his head was pulled back by the hair so that he was forced to look up at Touvier. He hadn't even heard them.

"Why?!" Cromwell screamed, "Why did she have to die? What could she have possibly done to deserve that?"

Touvier's brows sagged down to hide his eyes in shadow before he answered, "It was nothing she did, boy. It was what she knew. What they all knew. Andross had already abducted or gained the cooperation of far too many members of Progenitor, and once the cipher was taken we had no choice but to ensure that his assets would be limited. With our own agencies compromised, there was only one way to make certain he was denied access to any more project members. They had to be silenced."

"Progenitor…" Cromwell echoed. That's right, the old relic's pet project. A vicious smile played at the corner's of his mouth as he looked up at Touvier, "Your dirty little secret."

The old man's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he said, "Everything about that project is on file, Cromwell, I have no secrets involving that."

He couldn't suppress it. A sharp cackle erupted from his chest before one of his captors silenced him with a painful twist of his arm.

Cromwell grimaced, but kept his smile and said, "Lying to a dead man is the same as lying to yourself, you know. Why do you think I chose now to try and kill you? Did you really think I would throw away the last half of my life unless I was certain I could destroy you?"

Touvier was silent for a moment as he gauged what Cromwell was saying. A trick he'd picked up from his years in the Bureau was reading micro-expressions, little facial twitches that gave away certain emotions. Touvier was concerned, but not nervous, not afraid of what he was insinuating, but by the creases in his brow, Cromwell could tell the old man didn't know what was happening outside this manor even now.

"And what is it that you think you know?" Jacques asked in a low tone.

"Oh, It isn't what I know that should concern you, Jacques," Cromwell answered, smugly, "It's what all of Lylat is going to know in the next few minutes."

Touvier's eyes narrowed into slits. He gave a harsh gesture to the men holding Cromwell down, and he was jerked to his feet and dragged over to the next room. He was then shoved into a chair and held in place by the firm hands of one man while the other produced a length of black tac-line and tied his wrists. Then something peculiar happened. The man tying him down locked eyes with Cromwell as he went about his task. He recognized him. The man's name was Harold Dunwood, a sergeant now, but he'd been a fresh green private when he'd shown up to Cromwell for training. Dunwood was a family man – probably how they'd gotten to him.

The man made no sign other than that brief moment of eye contact, but as he went to supposedly check his knot work, he slipped something small and round into Cromwell's hand. Dunwood's eyes flicked up to Cromwell's again, briefly, and then he stepped away and stood behind him with his other captor. He knew what the man had just given him, what the little capsule held. It was a slim chance, but it was one he was grateful for. It seemed at least some of his men were still loyal.

Touvier entered the room a few moments later, sliding a wave-phone shut and dropping it into the pocket of the robe he was wearing. He inspected his men's handiwork, and once he seemed sure his captive was secured, he asked, "What have you been told, Cromwell, and who is your informant?"

Cromwell needed to keep this going until he could figure out a way to get close to Touvier. He needed to be within a few feet to have a shot, so he started to talk.

"What don't I know?" he cracked, hoping to bait Touvier, "I know the truth about Progenitor. I know how your house has remained so powerful in the years since the Treaty, the reason your seat has always been held by a Touvier. I know what Progenitor meant for you…and I know all about your precious key."

Anger – real, burning anger – flashed across Jacque's face and he glared at the men behind Cromwell.

"Out." he ordered, and once the two had left and closed the door, he looked over to Julia and said "Secure the room, my dear, and be very careful of what you choose to remember of this night."

He stood still, leaning heavily on his cane as Julia produced a suppressor from her breast pocket and switched it on with a high-pitched whine. All ambient sound from the world outside the room died, and she set about scanning for bugs, closing blinds, and locking doors. When she was done, she nodded to Touvier. He then walked over to a padded chair, seated himself across from Cromwell, and folded his hands over his cane, held out in front of himself.

"I want to know what you've learned, from whom you have learned it, and who you have told," the old man stated.

"And I suppose you expect me to give all of this to you for nothing?" Cromwell said, flippantly.

"You are in no position to bargain, Cromwell," Touvier answered, "I am affording you a gentleman's dignity, but if need be I can have Julia extract the information while I go into the other room and pour myself a glass of wine."

Cromwell raised an eyebrow as he looked over at the agent with a heavy sigh.

"That won't be necessary. Sorry, Julia, but I'm still not ready for a physical relationship," he said. He then looked back to Touvier and asked, "Should we start with what's ailing you? I have to say, I found it ironic when I learned that the thing your order so desperately perused is killing you."

Touvier's only reaction was to finger at a ring on his right hand. An odd trinket that Cromwell had never seen him wear before. It was a ring of plain iron, with what appeared to be an eye at its top.

"You people have manipulated Cornerian history for nearly two thousand years. You sowed secrets, raised dynasties, sparked feuds, wars, even genocides-"

"Stop rambling!" Julia interrupted, but Touvier calmed her with a soft gesture.

"And what has it gotten you?" Cromwell continued, "Nearly your entire order is afflicted with a disease you perversely call a blessing.

"Oh, but it must have been quite the shock when Andross betrayed you. How desperate must you have been? Having taken that venom into your body, feeling it creep through your veins, and knowing the one man who could possibly control it had left you to die. What was it you decided to call it? Anima? Yes, that was it. Anima. Life," he smiled, "See Jaques? I know what your poison is too."

"Who is your informant, Cromwell," Touvier insisted again, "tell me and I will see that you are comfortably imprisoned rather than painfully executed."

Cromwell kicked his head back and stared wistfully at the ceiling, saying "How generous. But you may change your mind shortly..."

After a brief pause, he brought his eyes back down to meet Jacques' and asked, "Do you watch the news? I know you probably don't put much stock in it, since its mostly your own propaganda, but I think you'll find that CNS has a particularly interesting story tonight."

Jacques' face was becoming stony as his legendary patience clearly began to be tested. He glanced over to the video screen which rested neatly on a tastefully carved pedestal and motioned for Julia to turn it on.

The look on the old man's face when it was changed to the Cornerian News Station was everything Cromwell had been hoping for. The first image he saw was of the Pillar of Aumn. An ancient monument about fifty miles outside Corneria City. It was the location of the old capital of Cannes, center of the former Caninite Empire. The area was a protected historical site, nothing significant if you were ignorant of the truth.

A young man in protective gear stood in front of the Pillar with a microphone in his hand as he reported what was likely the story of his life, "Less than an hour ago, Cornerian Defence Forces initiated a full scale raid on the historical city of Cannes, and have barred all entry by civilian personnel, save this reporter and members of the CNS investigative crew. As you can see, they have issued all of us protective gear, as this is a very dangerous operation against seditious forces which, according to Colonel William Neville, leader of the CDF task force, have been responsible for...wait, wait, it appears some sort of entrance to a compound beneath the Pillar of Aumn has opened, and...yes, yes this is it!"

They man stayed well behind a group of men as they rushed the entrance.

"This is Michael Prayer, CNS News, and I am bringing to you, live, the raid of the secret complex beneath the Pillar, ladies and gentleman-"

Blaster fire erupted as robed men opened fire on the CDF forces and were quickly gunned down.

The man kept talking, but Cromwell was watching Touvier. The old man whispered almost inaudibly as he held down his anger, "that archive...is SACRED!"

Cromwell watched as the man reared to his feet, his cane forgotten. His spindly arms suddenly began to swell and tighten into sinewy muscle as glowing blue lines traced across every exposed area of his body. He turned on Cromwell, his eyes glowing blue and full of fury. In a blink, he had crossed the distance between them and held Cromwell by the throat and lifted him off the ground, chair and all.

Jacques hurled Cromwell backwards, and the wooden chair exploded into splinters as he collided with the ground. He held on desperately to the object in his hand, and, despite the pain, Cromwell laughed, looking up just in time to be lifted off the ground again and slammed into the wall behind him.

"Do you have any idea what you have done?!" Touvier roared, the lines on his skin forming little blue hexagonal scales as they crept up his neck.

Julia, unsure of what to do, held her blaster out toward both of them, and Cromwell smiled ruefully at her before turning his eyes back to Jacques.

"I know exactly what I've done, monster," he croaked, squeezing down on the little sphere in his hand until it cracked and hissed its contents into the air, "Vekker sends his regards."

That was all he could say as the gas constricted his lungs and locked his muscles so that his jaw clenched painfully. He caught sight of Julia, outside of the gas's range of lethal dispersion. She was coughing, but would probably survive, while Jacques, on the other hand, dropped him to the ground and reeled backwards.

There was a whining in his ears that drowned out all other sounds, and spots danced across his vision. Jacques fell to the ground in front of him and began to convulse grotesquely on the floor, and Cromwell knew he was likely doing the same. What did it matter? He had done what he had set out to do. And as he felt himself fading, he managed to look Touvier in the eyes, and watch as the life poured out of him. He fought back his own death, forced his eyes to stay open long enough to see the old man's thrashing cease, and his eyes fade as his soul left his body.

And that was all. Blackness consumed him, and despite his certainty that he would be joining Jacques in hell, he held a tiny spark of hope that he would at least be allowed a glimpse of Lucile in heaven.