Will and Fate Ch.17
By Jeremy
September 23, 1997
Chaos.
This was the core of battle, even if you had the most disciplined people, the most highly-trained soldiers. The human race was simply too chaotic for its own good, and so warfare was confusion leavened somewhat by discipline.
Michael Veingrad wondered where that depressing thought had come from, especially now, when he had no time for such eccentricities. He was jogging to and from in Blue Section, the part of headquarters that had been hit the hardest, and thus was the weakest. He was arrayed in SCD ZX3 Battle Armor, a combat suit made from England's finest military kevlar compound, hefting a P14 riffle, his good old Berreta, ammo clips, and three time grenades.
If one had thought him a one-man arsenal, he'd have been right. In fact, he was worse than that, for what he shot died. Veingrad was one of the best marksman in the world and a highly trained soldier, a combination the enemy had found daunting.
Right now, he was urging a squad of SCD toward his present position, where entrenched friendly units were desperately trying to maintain a breach from occurring.
"Come one, mates!" he shouted, waving them into position. "We need you yesterday!!! Move, move MOVE!!!" Under his steely gaze, the men and women of the new squad hurried to reinforce the beleaguered defenders.
The mercenary army had had three advantages: surprise, numbers and the fact that the outer defense systems had been shut down by a damnable traitor that Mark was attempting to track down. The SCD soldiers had been taken by surprise, but had come to their senses and quickly offered a stiff defense. Presently riffle shots were being exchanges from behind bulkheads, walls, and overturned furniture.
The mercenaries had more men, but the SCD were better- armed and trained, which left things in a draw for the present. Michael just hoped they could it at that until reinforcements came in.
As the new squad took position, he saw three enemy soldiers, at different angles, taking aim at the largely unprotected newbies. He never though about what he had to do. Never hesitating, he took his Berreta, barely aimed, and fired three times, at three different angles. The first two men receive the bullet in the face, killing them instantly, while the third was hit on the shoulder. However, the wound made him stumble forward, and before he could fling himself back to relative safety, half a dozen rounds had raked his body, causing him to fly backward and crash down, unmoving.
Michael saw that things were looking rather good here, and moved off toward another hot spot. There was no shortages of those in Blue Section. He wasn't surprised when his receiver on his ear unit gave a beep. He opened the line.
"Veingard."
"Michael!" came the professional but highly tense voice of Mark Culhen. "You in Blue Section, right?"
"Affirmative." he answered neutrally, still jogging down a corridor.
"Thank God! Tyrone's units need help out in Corridor D 22. I'm sending sub-squad seventeen and twenty to help you, and they should be on your heels when your arrive. Normally I wouldn't ask this, but Tyrone's not the leader type and at this time..."
He cut him off with grunt, taking not of where he was. Corridor E 7. Not far. He increased his speed, maintaining his riffle and pistol at the ready. He never missed a beat. "I'm on it, Mark. What's the situation back at Red, Green and Yellow?."
A small silence, which meant Mark was certainly checking up on some things. Then his voice came back, strong and not as high-pitched as it usually was. "Red Sector's in very good shape, considering this section had the main armory that contain our lasers and best equipment. Laser blasts are doing a lot of damage, and I'm sure it'll be a pain of reconstruction, but the enemy's being repelled soundly there.
Green Section's being left alone pretty much - only a few skirmishes on the edges. But its the medical section, the enemy knows it can just wipe them out when the other sectors are taken." his voice became more grim, bitter "Right now its filling up with the wounded. Damn that traitor!"
Michael wholeheartedly agreed.
"Yellow Sector's...not much better than Blue. Julia and the Commander are there presently, keeping things together. It's holding...barely. On the bright side, I've got two good news."
"Which are?" he asked, reading the signs by force of habits. D 29, almost there.
"First, I've managed to link with MI6, and I've learned Wolfman's already sent heavy reinforcements. They should be there soon. The second piece of good news..." and his voice became almost feral at that "...is that I just found out who the bloody traitor is!"
Michael blinked, starting to pant from the exertion of running with heavy equipment. "You have."
"Bet I did, lad. That b*tch may be good at hiding her trail, but I f*cking DESIGNED the codes. It was easy to do a signature trace and find who had accessed our defense systems protocols."
"You said 'her'. It's a female agent, then." he paused. "Spill the beans, who is it?"
Mark was instantly uncomfortable. "Errr...well, you not gonna like this, lad, but I found out without a shred of doubt that its..."
Who it was as the level of riffle fire and screams suddenly got louder. He looked up. Corridor 24. Just ahead was that big hot spot. And from what he heard, it was more than hot. Some of the voices that screamed in pain he recognized, and he heard the distinctive sound of enemy fire, much more numerous, friendly fire weak.
It was no longer a hot spot. It was a darn volcano now! He gritted his teeth, hearing more screaming. Mark was asking if everything was okay, and he didn't answer, hearing the escalating conflict and knowing he had to act fast.
"Sorry, Mark. Tell me about the traitor later. Where are the sub-squads?"
"About two minutes behind you."
"F*ck!" the marksman cried, losing his usual phlegmatic attitude. "That position's not going to hold THIRTY SECONDS. There's no way that..." he trailed off. Wait. There was a way. One that no sensible person should take but, heh, who ever said he was sensible. Calm, yes. Sane, never. He sighed, a small smile upon his lips.
"Mark." he said softly. I'll take care of the first bunch. Should cause enough confusion so that the sub squads'll be able to take care of the rest of the jerks."
"Take care of them? By yourself? That's..." a shocked gasp on the other side. "Michael, don't you DARE do you what I think you're about to do!"
"And what are you gonna do about it? Spank me?" he said with a small point of humor. "Take care of yourself, my friend. Tell Nemmi I'm sorry." he reached for his ear piece.
"Michael...!" the Scot's voice was cut off as he removed the device, still wearing the resigned smiled on his lips. The screams had faded, replaced by angry, determined shouts. The defenders had been wiped out. The enemy was coming up the corridor. By the time the sub-squads arrived, they'd have been well-entrenched here. To remove them would have been costly.
But he was here. That meant less SCD kids were going to die. What did it matter if he did. He had delayed his date with death long enough, time to go out the scene. And if he was going out, he was going out with a bang!
He stood up and walked towards the approaching voices, his step determined unafraid. Had anyone looked at his face, they would have seen the look of a man who was going to die, knew it and wholefully accepted it. A serene but frightening look. And still that smile played on his lips. He rounded off the corner of the hot zone, taking a timer grenade set to zero seconds, and found himself face-to face with at least two dozen surprised men. They only stared at him for a second. He took hold of it.
"Let it be known that Michael Veingrad met his death on his feet!" he shouted.
It prompted the mercs into action. Many raised their riffle, as he pressed the activation button on the timer grenade. Riffles spotted fire, aimed at his chest. The kevlar couldn't stop them all, he knew that quite well. He groaned and gasped at the impacts, at the numbing pain that engulfed him. Still he didn't fall, although death was cofast for him, his vision blurry, his mouth filling with blood. He spat it out, and in once last defiant act, threw the grenade at them.
"HERE! A GIFT!" he screamed in agony. It detonated a great ball of fire and pain. And Michael Veingrad smiled for the last time.
'A good way to end it. If only I'd known who the traitor was' he thought fleetingly.
Then darkness.
* * * * * * * * * *
Five minutes later...
Taking over the door was easy. Strong steel alloy, two sentries. Sentries that hadn't been forewarned by a now-dead controller. Two sharpshooters took careful aim, squeezed of two shots from silencer-endowed pistols. The two Shadowlaw grunts crumpled immediately to the ground, one with a bullet between the eyes, the other with blown-open throat. As there were no windows anywhere that could be seen around this compound, Giorgio had felt safe sending the Laser Squad to blow the door.
Mere moments later Steve had given the order, and four reddish-white beams had shot from high-tech cannons and impacted upon the door. It held for a few seconds, then started turning red. And just before the firing sequence ended, there was a great grinding sound, and the doors literally blew apart, in one myriad of overheated bits of metal. The doorway beckoned, a gaping black hole that seemed to signify death.
Castillo, however, had no time for that kind of sentimentality, and neither had any of the men with him. The rescue team advanced, quickly and efficiently, but not using their wraithlike stealth anymore, for anyone inside the base must have both heard and felt that explosion. There would be a welcoming committee. A very angry and dangerous one.
They entered, Laser Squad on point, and found themselves facing half a dozen Shadowlaw soldiers. Fortunately, these grunts had just arrived, and were unprepared still. They fumbled with their riffles, but to late.
"FIRE!" shouted Steve, and four beams responded, this time backed with bullets from the AK-47s. Three soldiers were burned by the laser beam, while two were ripped apart by a fair amount of ammo. The last one looked around, panicked, and ran back through the left side of the fork they had in front of them. Giorgio came forward to inspect the corpses, his face grim but filled with dark humor. He looked back at Steve.
"Looks like they know we're here, huh? Time to move. Steve you and Jer take Laser Squad and four other men and head left. We'll handle the rest. Move fast, and get through anyone you see."
"Right."
"All right! Let's move it, Ninos!" bellowed the mission commander. At once the team broke in two: one heading left, the other right. It was a well-used tactic, and a sensible one. When in a base where it is outnumbered, an invading squad divides in two or more units, thus giving it increased speed of movement and the element of surprise. That effect had worked fully to their advantage thus far.
They followed the panting whine of the fleeing man through the left way, and got into another shooting match with four more soldiers. The nearest never had time to shoot, as Jer took the arm that held a gun, twisted that limb until it broke, and pushed the man's face hard against his knee, knocking the guy completely senseless. The other three - the coward with them, fired back in panic, hitting two of laser squads, who fell back but were otherwise unarmed because of the kevlar armor.
Steve shot down one with his Berreta, while the other two were mowed down by weapons fire. They immediately pressed on, one man shooting a riffle shot into the unconscious man. A dire thing, but this was battle, after all, and no one said anything. No one needed to.
They were coming up on another fork when, from the very ceiling it seemed, dropped a shadowy form. Half a dozen guns were immediately leveled at this new unknown threat, and Steve was prepared to give the order to fire, when Jeremy's voice rang out, not in fear or anger, but JOY.
"Ibuki! Haha! You damn ninja girl, thank you!" he shouted, rushing to the newbie's side and giving the person a sound, friendly smack on the shoulder. Steve ordered the men to stand down but remain vigilant and observed the figure.
Garbed all in black that was used so often for stealth and infiltration, the figure was slim and definitely feminine, with an almost unnatural grace. With one move, the woman took off the black cowl over her face, and Steve almost froze. This was the Ibuki that Mark and Jeremy spoke so highly of?!? Why, she mustn't have been more than seventeen! He could not believe someone so young could do so much.
But it wasn't a time for disbelief, and so, swallowing it, he approached the two, who were deep in a hurried, whispered conversation. "Okay, people." said the Canadian "Its nice to play catch-up, but we've got a mission to finish, and..." he nearly choked on his word when the shinobi stealthily sped down the right corridor. Jeremy gave him a level look.
"Follow her, Steve. She knows the way." and he moved after her, with nearly the same unnatural speed. Caught off-guard, it was all Steve could do to rally the others and follow, gritting his teeth against the annoying reckless streak World Warriors all seemed to have. They rushed after them.
They caught up as the two were mixing it out with ten infantry. Three were already down - two from knives sticking through their throat and one because of a powerful punch. However, the surprise had passed, and the seven remaining grunts had cornered the two on the other side of the square room, asking them to surrender. They were in the middle of obeying, all smiles. Steve and his team of seven were upon them in a second, tearing through.
Three went down by bullets. Another got his neck twisted by the ninja when his attention was diverted, and Jeremy disarmed another, clobbering him with the rifle. The two survivors, recognizing their situation, laid down their weapons, just as Ibuki was taking off some kind of card, talking to Jeremy fast. there was another corridor, only fifteen feet deep, and the two were quickly jogging down there.
They looked determined but almost...almost...almost what? Whatever it was, it gave even Steve Goosebumps, for all his experience. He ran after them, determined to stop whatever scheme had been cooked up. As he reached them, he found the ninja fiddling with the door's control, Jeremy looking back at him. Waiting.
"Okay now, Storm." he stated quite crossly "What the HELL do you think you're doing?!?"
"Answering a challenge that was tacitly posed." was the calm answer.
"What?!? Have you forgotten that we're here to get Cammy out of here?? What's gotten into you."
"Nothing. Cammy matters more than anything to me right now. But she would've wanted me to take care of those fair and square." he explained, tense.
"Who?"
"'What' would be better." stated the Shinobi, her voice surprisingly young and bright. The door opened. Jeremy turned around.
The other side was a rather large antechamber, probably a guardroom or something, from the weapons racks and computers the lined a wall. There was a door on the other side. And, blocking that door were two women.
That was his first impression. Just two women. Nothing serious. Then he saw the vacant expression in their eyes, and his impression changed. Wrong, not JUST two women. These were killers, devoid of emotion, devoid of humanity and - from their eyes - devoid of true sentience. Like...like Cammy when she had been kept at Interpol, before they found way to help her there. He gripped Jeremy's shoulder.
"Those are Bison's dolls, huh?" he asked, although it wasn't really a question. All he received was a nod. Dolls. Here. But then... "They're watchdogs! They're guarding the prisoner!"
"Right. Once through them, we will be able to help Cammy." said Ibuki.
Steve nodded." Good. We'll blast them, then. Then we can force the door and..."
"No." Jeremy, cold, his voice containing a rising wrath that was tinged with apprehension. "We gotta do this the old-fashioned way. Don't worry, they'll get theirs for helping in abducting her." a dark smile appeared, increasing Steve's unease. Still the Canadian sought to convince the younger manot to enter the fight, no matter what he felt he had to do. But he never had a chance to.
In one swift move the gray-eyed American had turned around, planting his feet in Steve's stomach. The kevlar protected, but he was still flung ten feet back, breathless. His men were coming behind him, he heard them as he moved painfully erect again. Jeremy gave him a wave of apology, and even a smile 'v'.
However, the man's eyes were angry, shadowed. Desperate.
And then the doors closed, slammed shut. Steve gave out a marvelous amalgam of Canadian curses that would have seared the skin out of any of his countrymen, and tapped his ear device angrily.
"Giorgio. Come in! We gotta a problem! That fool..." he started.
"We got more than just a problem, amigo." came the Spanish voice. It sounded worried and hollow. Giorgio never sounded like that. Worried, maybe. Hollowed, NEVER. He wondered what was up. When he discovered what it was, his entire being was gripped by fear.
"HQ's under attack. It's bad, Steve. Seems like Michael's just died there."
* * * * * * * * * *
Twenty minutes later...
Colonel Wolfman peered at the chaos that had once been the octagons base and the defense- riddled lawn of the SCD Headquarters through a small window in the armed chopper he was in. He was scowling as he took stock of the many holes that had been practiced in the walls of the compound, of the mercenary forms that milled about those holes and mostly at the fact that nothing had been placed to stop the advance of that army. The report he had received was true, then: the defense systems HAD been sabotaged.
"I can't believe that a mercenary army would have the GALL to attack the heart of England." said a nearby soldier. Wolfman nodded with the others, but wasn't as surprised. In all his years in MI6, he'd come to learn that mercenaries would do ANYTHING for money. Anything. This attack, however, must a cost quite a bundle.
'No time to theorize.' he thought blandly. 'You've got hundreds of Her Majesty's best trapped in there, and your boys got to help them get out of this mess.' He left the window and looked to his men, tapping a radio link.
"Everyone of you hear this. This is Colonel Wolfman of MI6 Division. Our choppers will land shortly where the enemy troops are tinniest, in SCD Red Section. The enemy's buckling there, and we're going out there to make damn sure that these bastards get kicked out of England. Remember, our job is to enter the compound, reinforce the SCD still fighting there, and wait until the regular armed forces wipe out the rest in about five minutes. Everyone knows the specifics. Godspeed." Not a bad little speech. Staying in touch with the troops was the key, he knew. High morale in that case. He turned to the pilot. "Land right in the middle of the bastards."
"What?" the pilot exclaimed, incredulous. "But sir, they'll shoot us down before..."
"Man these choppers will need more than riffle fire to go down. Now lay down strafing fire and land the damn thing! We'll be fine..."
"In your opinion..."
"Right. MY opinion. But since I'M the commander of this mission, MY opinion is all that counts. Land, that's an order. You people, be ready to let your riffles thunder around."
They did land, in fact better than they had thought to at first. The strafing fire from the choppers was with heavy ammo, and scattered the mercs directly around them. As so, after being hit rather ineffectively by the attacking army and responding more strongly, sixty-five mark 3 troop helicopters landed, not farther than thirty meters from each other. Inside each, twelve MI6 soldiers, arrayed in kevlar and riffles, awaited the chance to go out and give some to the enemy.
It was no exception in the main chopper, for Wolfman could see that urge, that very need, in the face of every of the eleven that stood with him. Hell, he certainly felt that very thing himself! He took hold of the opening latch and gave the others a level and determined look that would have made any of the enemy outside shiver.
"LET'S KICK THEIR A**ES, BOYS!!!" he bellowed, and he heard a rough howl of acknowledgement as he pulled the door open with force. And they literally burst out of the chopper, gunning down any of the grunts that came their way.
There was a rumor that went around the fighting circles and the army barracks in the world. It largely told that the English, which had once been a civilization of warriors and daring adventurers, who had forged the largest empire the world had ever known, had shrunken to polite, spineless once-had beens. It was more than probable that the mercs who were attacking the compound had thought that very clearly.
Well, if the SCD defense didn't disillusion them, the MI6 certainly did. Swift, deadly and thoroughly efficient, the elite soldiers of Her Majesty swarmed up the merc lines, anything but either polite or spineless. The enemy line was weak, pummeled from inside, and outnumbered by the fresh and well-armed strike force that came from outside. Caught between a defiant anvil and a furious hammer, the enemy line broke like ice.
The exchange of fire was intense, and for each two mercs, a MI6 soldier fell, but the reinforcements soon won the upper hand in this fight where no quarter was given or asked. They broke through the wall, scattering and killing the attackers. Inside, a ragged and tired cheer went up as what was happening became clear. It was nearly an ovation when Wolfman entered the Red Section.
Nearly. Not quite. Too many lives, too many friends and comrades had been lost in that free-for-all of a battle for anyone to really cheer even SCD's saviors. Wolfman didn't mind. In fact, the one who should be cheered, he felt, were those kids. Taken by surprise, betrayed by someone inside the organization, these men and women had rallied and obviously forced the enemy to struggle to gain even an inch.
Someone had once told Wolfman the younger generations weren't fighters. He hoped to see the man again, to tell him that he was an ignorant old fool. These youths were proof of how wrong the idea was.
He didn't stop to be congratulated or to congratulate, instead focusing on finding the read and green uniform worn by the Elite SCD, and found one. A man of about thirty, an arm in a sling, grasping a Berreta. He didn't know the man but knew that he was the only elite here and, by that, the highest-ranking SCD in the place. He read the name tag. Lt.-Comdr. Smith.
"Commander. We'll secure the perimeter and then reinforce every weakened position in the base." behind him, a great flow of MI6 were efficiently teaming up with SCDs, doing just that.
"Thank you, sir." said the other man, tired but resolute.
"I wish to speak with Major Brisby. Can you put me in contact with him?" he asked. A logical venture: Brisby and he together could hold off anyone. However, instead of the prompt "Yessir!" he had expected, the man looked stricken. Wolfman suddenly felt as if the room, so hot with smoke, and sweat and blood, had turned into an iceberg. "What is it? Speak up, man!"
"I...I'm sorry sir. Major Brisby was mortally wounded while organizing the defenses of Yellow Section."
NO!!! Screamed a voice inside his head. Ever since their first mission twenty-eight years before, Wolfman had never seen Brisby getting even a scratch. The man was swift, decisive, always taking the right decisions. He'd never been hit. To Wolfman, his friend had always seemed to be an unstoppable force, a force that had taken the fight to terrorists, fanatics and drug-dealers everywhere and had forged his own organization to that effect.
For a moment, the commander of MI6 was too stunned by surprise and grief to speak. Then anger replaced it. He took hold ofg that anger, harnessed it to keep the walls of his discipline intact. Grief would come later, he knew. Not now.
"Well..." he had to cough to find his voice. "Who's the highest ranking SCD active here?"
"That would be me, sir."
Wolfman saw a an average man holding a pistol coming his way, his gait alert and denoting aptitudes that seemed to belie the high-pitched voice, the thin face. The accent was Scottish, that was sure.
"are?"
"Captain Mark Culhen, fourth-in command of the London SCD." The voice was sad, knowing it said it meant there were three before him who couldn't command. Wolfman sympathized.
"Captain, then I'll relieve you of command from you temporarily."
"Thank you sir. It's just as well, actually. I'm on a personal mission right now."
Wolfman didn't know how to feel about that. "What would that be?" In answer, Culhen gave out a very nasty smile, a smile that hinted at suppressed anger. A very dangerous look that would have made lesser men step back. Wolfman did not. The scot showed his pistol.
"I'm gonna catch the one who betrayed all of us." he said. And then he was gone, running down an hallway. The colonel looked in that direction a moment longer, than turned to giving orders. Someone passed him an ear-link device, and soon he was speaking with SCD and MI6 Elite both.
The plan was simple: reinforce all positions, evacuate the gravely wounded and, most of all, HOLD. Retreat was not an option. Until the Regular Army arrived, they had to hold, or SCD would be crippled too badly.
SCD was Brisby's dream. The man had forged it, held it together, and died for it.
And Wolfman would be damned if he'd let bloody MERCS destroy what his friend fought so hard to bring to life.
* * * * * * * * * *
Around that time...
Perhaps it had been stupid not to let Steve take these two dolls out with weapons fire. In fact, it most probably had been. Only he hadn't wanted to. No because he wanted to save Cammy himself - although saving her was always part of his decisions lately - nor because of the honor of the fight.
The reason why had been much simpler: Bison was gone, and these two dolls were extensions of the bastard. As such, he had found the perfect target to pass his rage on, a person with whom he could give in to the violence that had been surging through him all the while the battle went.
Juli and Juni were their name, these two dolls. Which was which he had no clue and cared not one little bit. He had taken on the brown-haired one because she was the closest to him, letting Ibuki take care of the other. He had gone into the fight with all he had.
And right now, as he blocked a blow from his enemy, he was still giving it all. That doll was also giving it her all, however. She was strong, surprisingly strong, and extremely fast and nimble. He wondered if Bison had pumped them with his power before he went the-devil-knew-where, and found it likely. The guy had gone to a certain length to reclaim his once-agent, and wasn't the type to let things escape him easily. Yes, she was juiced up. Fine by him, he WANTED this fight to be messy.
He returned the blow, catching the doll at the base of the jaw, pushing her backward. She stumbled as her head was snapped back, and he followed like a predator, laying into her with all of his strength. However, the stamina of this agent was incredibly increased, and she took the hits without much damage, her face showing not a hint of discomfort.
In fact it showed not a hint of anything, except the eyes, which had an eerie purplish glow to them and always seemed to glare. Eventually she blocked, took hold of his arm, pivoted and threw him away. He flew right into a wire panel, disrupting some circuits and well-nigh getting electrocuted. He groaned when he impacted, his back blazing red pain, but he ignored it, scrambling on his feet and taking his fighting stance a bare moment after his crash.
"SNIPING ARROW!"
He heard that at the very last moment, and found himself unable to move in time to dogde the quick attack that came his way. It hit him straight in the face, breaking his nose in the process. His vision blurred for a moment as pain overrode the synapses of his brain, but ragefully forced it all to recede. He thus saw her crouching in front of him on moment before her next attack went.
"CANNON SPIKE!"
It almost hit him. He scrambled backward by instinct, narrowly missing being thrust upward painfully and unceremoniously, but still went down on his behind, dazed. He shook his head and cleared it, seeing the doll was still up finishing her upward, chi-driven thrust. He smiled briefly, forgetting the ache of his arms, the blaze that was his back and the dripping, throbbing thing that was his nose.
He went deep within himself, channeling his own power, using it in a way that he had practiced but never used before in a fight. Chi flowed through his right arm, concentrating, until a gray-white hue surrounded it. His muscles went taut,. trying to contain the power, but still he waited, waited as she descended, and was at just the right angle. Then he released it, swinging his fist upward, giving the chi he had gathered the chance to explode.
"SKY BREAKER!"
Although his fist had not been near enough to hit her, she gasped as the chi that burst through his arm imitated the swinging movement, catching her in the abdomen, flinging her backward. She crashed to the floor, coming to her feet again. But not as swiftly. That shot had told.
Her movement were a bit shaky now. Still she came on, and he let her. He blocked her fist, swiped her feet from under her, but she followed the swipe, flipping backward and coming back on her feet fast enough to deliver a strong blow on the neck that he barely avoided. Another punch followed however, across his jaw, and he stumbled backward.
And that was IT. At that very moment he stopped simply wanting to defeat this opponent, it became a need, a focus upon which days of guilt, helplessness and anger rallied. He reached down, reached for the chi that hid within him like he never had before in his life, even when he had fought Thomas years ago.
Unlike that time, however, his anger did not explode, it cooled him, leaving only the obsessive need to win and a dark ruthlessness. He let chi flow through his arms, his feet, every part of his being, and threw himself back into the fight like a madman.
She was pushed back by the force of the punches and kicks she received. For each that connected, some thing strained, sometimes greatly. Her left arm broke when she blocked a kick of particular viciousness, and an expression of suffering flickered in her eyes. Still he moved in, unrelenting, wishing this doll broken so completely and so utterly that it would never bother anyone again.
His pain was gone, so focused was he. The world was gone. Everything. At that very moment, in the heat of the exchange, he forgot why he was here. All that he wanted was to win, to make this damn thing suffer, and it was exactly what he was doing.
It lasted one instant, one instant on which all that mattered was all, except this. And then reality reasserted itself, and he relented, stepping back. He looked over and examined his opponent.
It was still standing, but in very bad shape, far worse than his. Red marks showed on the skin that had been hit, her left arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, and her breath came fast, rough. She was nearing the end of her line. Bison's power that maybe, but when the body failed, the power could do nothing.
He looked at this woman, who had never done anything to him, who was only an innocent victim, taken by Bison, her spirit broken by physical, mental and psychic abuse, and felt pity and not just a little bit of guilt at what he was doing. However, he didn't consider stopping.
He darted a look at the other side, and was surprised to see Ibuki and that other drone still locked in combat. In the heat of battle, he had completely forgotten them both. However, he saw that the young Shinobi was gaining a distinct upper hand, and decided he to forget them again for the time being. Although he was short of breath himself, sweating, he managed to rally his strength.
"If there's still a woman inside of you." he said "I want her to know I'm sorry." And he returned with what remained of his strength.
Both were winded, both were wounded and both had their own kind of determination. However, Jeremy had it going at a far higher level, using the power that emotions gave, the power that she lacked. She lurched back, he charged. He gave an opening, she went for it. This deadldance went on for a while, both giving out all they could.
Then the brunette slipped. A minor thing, that wouldn't have taken her a second to rectify when they had begun to fight. At this point, however, she was drained, and it would have taken her a moment more to get her feet back in place. For a single moment, she opened her guard.
Jeremy took that moment, pivoting upon himself and delivering a crushing back kick to her abdomen. She went crashing into the wall he had crashed into a moment before. Still she stood. Barely, but she stood. H egritted his teeth. Was there no end to that thing? He couldn't keep this on forever. She was so juiced up, she seemed to withstand things that normally would have knocked her out cold!
That's when he decided to use it. His own technique, based on the Flare Talon, a technique he wasn't certain he could withstand. He reached out into his will, his spirit, his very soul, and drew out all the chi he could, bringing his fists forward, palm outward, one upon the other.
Her forced the chi outward, through his arms, into his hands. Channeled it, piling the charge, powering up. Veins on his forearms and hands swelled, threatened to burst, and he started to hyperventilate. Still he held. All his life, no matter what, he had held. This was no different.
focusfocusfocusbreathebreathegodithurtsfocusfocusbreathedamnbreathenowreadyitsreadyreleaseitnowreleaseitnowNOWNOWNOW!!!!
"FLARE NOVA!!!!!!!!!" he screamed.
And it was then that a giant claw, much like the Flare Talon but bigger and far greater in potency, burst through his palms, heading toward its intended victim much like the very claw of a bird, a freak of lightning come to claim its prize. It hit the doll full force, causing every circuit in the wall to go crazed, adding their own power.
For a moment, the combined power of electricity and chi created a veritable oven of energy, in the middle of which writhed the body of a human being. A scream went of, very human, all fear and pain, and Jeremy closed his eyes as he saw her cook alive in the little inferno. Her scream continued for many seconds, and then stopped. The energy dissipated, but the electricity still surged through her body.
From the sweet, nauseating smell of scorched meat he got, he knew there was no hope for her. Nobody could survive that. He hadn't counted on his attack creating the chain reaction, and he was sorry, but the result was the same.
Whether voluntarily or not, he had killed her.
He went to his knees, hands flat against the floor, trying to regain his strength. It was slow in coming. The Flare Nova had been a desperate gamble, and not one he wished to reiterate. After a minute or two, however, his body started to respond almost normally again. That's when he felt someone behind him.
He whirled to find himself face-to-face with an Ibuki who seemed even more at the end of her strength than he. Drained, but exultant, however. He looked behind her, and saw the blonde doll's crumpled, unmoving form.
"Q-q-quite...a...hh...s-show." she said.
"Yeah...cough...Is she...hff...dead?" he asked. A very reluctant, very slow nod. He understood. "Yeah...I'm...I'm sorry about it too."
"But there was no choice." she said.
"None." And one day, we might actually bring ourselves to believe that, he thought. He waved at the door, knowing Steve was certainly thinking about blowing it up and them with it by now. "Go open that, please, Ibuki. I-I'll go get her."
A far more ready, far less uncertain nod. She however raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Will you be alright?"
He nodded, getting to his feet shuffling toward the other door, his thoughts again fully occupied by Cammy's condition, the need to find her, to tell her she is safe, to bring her back home. However, deep down inside him, he heard the doll's scream. He heard it quite clearly.
And he knew he had gotten out of this battle with his humanity intact, for he felt only sadness and guilt from it. He found himself asking his spirit this question: Was Cammy White worth all this?
And his spirit answered: Yes. She is worth more than anything to me.
* * * * * * * * * *
Ten minutes later...
Nemmi Shiwasa was calmly strolling inside Green Sector. The day had gone well. The plan that her true master - not that weak do-gooder Brisby - had engineered was now well in hand, and she free to continue as if nothing had happened. For, as far as the others were concerned, nothing had. A failure of the defense system because of an outside virus was implanted, that was it, that was all.
The firing had almost stopped now, the combined forces of SCD, MI6 and the Regular Army hard at work putting down the last pocket of mercenaries, reveling in their victory. She smirked. The fools. They were playing right into her master's hands and they didn't even fathom it. The SCD organization was now crippled by its losses. It would be so EASY to sow discord among them now. And if she could put the blame on Mark for his electronic incompetence, it would...
"Ye must be feeling very proud of yerself, huh lass?" came a voice. A voice she both knew and yet did not. The incredible high-pitch of it, the heavy Scottish accent, that all bespoke of Mark Culhen. But the usual cynicism of the man was gone, replaced by a rough, deadly edge. She turned.
There he was, standing not ten feet from her, his poise tense, deadly. His normally teasing eyes were now hard and cold, and his jaw, usually relaxed, was drawn tight. He looked like a predator finding a prey which had wounded it. A very frightening image, to be sure, and it did cause her to become wary.
But she wasn't afraid. She had surmised that one might find out the truth. But that one was the Elite that had been taken because of his computer and engineering genius. He wasn't a fighter at all, just a darn computer geek. She could handle him most amongst all of them.
"Mark!" she said, her voice showing relief. "Its so good to see you! It was terrible, if you could see all the wounded the medics are treating, all the..."
"Shut up, ye damn traitor." he hissed "I know all about the systems failure. Ye were good, Nemmi, very good. Hid all traces of the little shit ye did. Except the mainframe always kept safe copies of any tempering. The way it was hacked, the terminal, the positions - the codes." he went silent. What he left unsaid went without saying.
Nemmi had expected it, of course. A geek Mark may be, but he WAS a computer genius. It was reasonable that he had put safeguards on the Headquarters programs, and electronic recorders as well. She shrugged nonetheless, dropping the act she had taken on these last few months. It wasn't needed with this one anymore. But the man was alone, unaided. That was his mistake.
He seemed not to notice that fact, however, as he unbuckled his pistol, holding it in front of her. "I should just shoot ye like a dog for what ye did to us. Michael's death alone demands it. But I shan't. If I did, ye'd escape SCD justice, and I wouldn't wanta do that. Ye deserve more, after all, than just being shot." He dropped the pistol, and it clattered on the floor.
She laughed. "What? English justice? Don't make me laugh, baka! Your system's so rotten, I'll be out before you even blink."
His only answer was a very frosty smile, that contained something that almost actually made her shiver. "I'm not speaking of English justice. SCD takes care of its own, lass."
She wasn't listening anymore. She wasn't armed, or else she would've shot the fool the moment she'd seen him. However, she had had advanced hand-to-hand training that a geek like Culhen could not hope to match. Seeing him so confident, unarmed, she crouched and jumped, kicking at him.
But then he shifted, dodged the swift kick, bringing his fist hard on her ribs, making her cry out. The cry was cut short, however, as his knee connected with her abdomen with surprising strength. She saw stars, her breath was cut off, and she was completely befuddled and actually scared now.
How did that guy manage that? She tried to recover, but one that blossom at the back of her neck outmatched the pain that surged inside her. Slowly, she felt herself into unconsciousness. She manage to turn her head slightly, eying the cold Scottish face.
"But you're just a darn...geek..." she muttered. He gave a short, macabre laugh filled with contempt.
"Ye thought they'd let me into the ELITE if I didn't know how to fight?!?" he spat on her, disgusted. "PSAW! Ye are a FOOL!!!"
She struggled a bit against the darkness, trying to keep her consciousness, but ultimately failed. She drifted off with Mark Culhen's face looking down at her. And as she did, a frightening question sparked off, just before the dark.
WHAT was SCD justice, anyway?
* * * * * * * * * *
Around the same time...
Cammy was jerked into groggy wakefulness by shouts and a terrific commotion from inside the lab. She wondered what it was, her wits sluggish. They'd drugged her to run more tests before starting their experiments, and she had no idea how long she'd been out. What was happening around here?
Fear. That's what she felt from her surrounding. Paralyzing fear. She caught a glimpse of movement and saw a form. A dark form, making its way to her, very quickly. Probably Bison, who else would make these doctors so panicky. That's right, Bison. Coming to hurt her again. Funny, normally that would have scared her a lot more. She guessed being drugged had at least one benefit.
The form stopped right next to her. She could see a little better now. It was definitely a man. But not Bison. A smaller man, that one. The man stopped, gave a strangled noise, and took a definite step back. Now she was confused. What was that guy doing? No one here had ever shown any grief, and that was what she felt vaguely. Grief. Grief and hate, but not hate that was directed at her. She tried to sort it out, couldn't. The man seemed to scan all across her, then put his hand on his face, and gave out a noise that now confused her even more.
A sob. A very loud sob. No man of Bison ever would have dared.
The man stepped right next to her, again, and reached out an hand, touching her cheek slightly, she jerked sideways, not trusting this, knowing what had happened before, when someone had done that. The hand stopped, turned, snarled something - that voice, that wasn't possible!
And then she felt the metal bands removing themselves from her waist, her neck, her legs and arms. She was shocked, but even more so when the man turned back. He came into focus suddenly, as he spread a blanket a frightened medic gave him on her.
The face that looked back at her was young, but bruised and grieved. Tear-filled gray eyes fixed her with great tenderness, while there was a bittersweet smile on his lips. The man was lean but athletic, dressed partly in elite kevlar garb. She recognized the man at once, and for one moment she thought that, maybe, finally, she'd gone mad. She blinked.
But no. He was still there, lifting her in his arms, and clutching her for a moment, with a relief and a warmth she felt right through the blanket. That's when the drug finally dissipated, and she fully realized what was happening.
"You'll be okay, I got you. Oh, Cammy, I'll never let him, damn him, he'll burn for this, forgive me..." he babbled. She heard a commotion. Other voices, also familiar, if less so. Other SCD, she realized. She did not look at them, but instead looked at the one who held her, her own eyes blurry with tears. Tears of relief, tears of joy.
"Jer..." she whispered. He looked down at her. "You....really know...how to make...a dramatic pose." she nearly smiled. So did he. She closed her eyes. "I....knew....that you'd come....somehow..."
And she fell asleep. Not a painful sleep, not a drugged one. A restorative sleep, something she'd never had in days. It was okay. She was safe with him, with them.
She was going home.
* * * * * * * * * *
Two hours later...
Kale crouched, holding a child toy, in front of the child that Everick and he had taken from folk who were gone by now. A little baby that possessed immense potential, one that he had personally decided to name Dessara. He looked at the child in a sort of fond puzzlement, his smile he wore lacking its usual manic edge. In front of him, the baby giggled, trudging along on all fours, trying to reach the toy. He kept it out of reach for a while, observing.
"Why are you so important to that guy, little Dessara?" he whispered "The man could have ground me to powder if he'd wanted to, gotten you out himself. Why didn't he? And why the warning at all?"
The child could not answer, of course. She gurgled happily, her small, pudgy hand having finally reached the toy. She tugged at it and he held out against her for a moment. I answer, the second hand grasped the toy, and she tugged. Stubbornly. With good strength for such a little one. He felt very glad of what he was seeing.
"You have a strong will, and not a little bit of greed, huh?" he said "Good, that will be useful to you later on. This world won't give you anything if you don't fight for it, tear what you want from it." he stopped as he heard someone - an acolyte, he felt - hesitantly bowing, and clearing his throat. He already knew the reason for the man's presence, and as such was annoyed.
"Speak." he said.
"Milord." was the hesitant answer "The attack on SCD Headquarters has been repelled - with horrid casualties for both sides."
He nodded. The outcome had been designed such by his older brother, for vague reason he had not explained, even to Kale himself. He looked down at the child, still tugging, growing frustrated. His smile changed then, becoming the manic one the Circle Elders themselves were uncomfortable with. He let go of the toy and Dessara squealed in victory. He picked her up and turned to the acolyte.
"I am aware of that. Aware of this failure. You dare disturb me with such news while I visit my most probable heir." he showed his teeth, his smile becoming carnal. "You have some nerve, acolyte."
The man blanched. "F-f-forgive me, Lord Kale! It was Master Brenos who insisted that..."
"No excuses." he looked at the child in his arms, who was watching the toy most giddily. "Dessara, let me show you what you shall do to weak fools later in your life!" And before the acolyte could make a move, he had grabbed the man by the throat and infused him with destructive energy. The man screamed, clutching at Kale's arm, but the grip was pure steel, unrelenting. The screams lessened as spasms took over.
Dessara, still held by one arm, started to wail at the sounds of agony. Kale kept his cold gaze upon the dying man and with a with a surge of power, cut the trachea. The man was dead before he hit the floor. He held the sniffling child over the corpse, so that she could see it.
"That is death, Dessara. Never forget it. Never forget that YOU have the power to do that." he stepped over the corpse, outside the room, holding the child preciously. "My brother, Bison, will teach you that. Yes, little one, you're going to Shadowlaw to make that weirdo happy. And I'll be happy too. Bison will take good care of you." he laughed, and the child giggled with him, her fear already forgotten
"He won't give you toys like I do, but he'll teach you many things. Within two decades, probably less, you'll be a weapon. Not a doll like Juli or Juni, but someone with a will, power, and utter loyalty in Bison and his goal." he looked at her "I can hardly wait to see the end result." again he laughed as he continued his round.
And the small child giggled in her innocence.
By Jeremy
September 23, 1997
Chaos.
This was the core of battle, even if you had the most disciplined people, the most highly-trained soldiers. The human race was simply too chaotic for its own good, and so warfare was confusion leavened somewhat by discipline.
Michael Veingrad wondered where that depressing thought had come from, especially now, when he had no time for such eccentricities. He was jogging to and from in Blue Section, the part of headquarters that had been hit the hardest, and thus was the weakest. He was arrayed in SCD ZX3 Battle Armor, a combat suit made from England's finest military kevlar compound, hefting a P14 riffle, his good old Berreta, ammo clips, and three time grenades.
If one had thought him a one-man arsenal, he'd have been right. In fact, he was worse than that, for what he shot died. Veingrad was one of the best marksman in the world and a highly trained soldier, a combination the enemy had found daunting.
Right now, he was urging a squad of SCD toward his present position, where entrenched friendly units were desperately trying to maintain a breach from occurring.
"Come one, mates!" he shouted, waving them into position. "We need you yesterday!!! Move, move MOVE!!!" Under his steely gaze, the men and women of the new squad hurried to reinforce the beleaguered defenders.
The mercenary army had had three advantages: surprise, numbers and the fact that the outer defense systems had been shut down by a damnable traitor that Mark was attempting to track down. The SCD soldiers had been taken by surprise, but had come to their senses and quickly offered a stiff defense. Presently riffle shots were being exchanges from behind bulkheads, walls, and overturned furniture.
The mercenaries had more men, but the SCD were better- armed and trained, which left things in a draw for the present. Michael just hoped they could it at that until reinforcements came in.
As the new squad took position, he saw three enemy soldiers, at different angles, taking aim at the largely unprotected newbies. He never though about what he had to do. Never hesitating, he took his Berreta, barely aimed, and fired three times, at three different angles. The first two men receive the bullet in the face, killing them instantly, while the third was hit on the shoulder. However, the wound made him stumble forward, and before he could fling himself back to relative safety, half a dozen rounds had raked his body, causing him to fly backward and crash down, unmoving.
Michael saw that things were looking rather good here, and moved off toward another hot spot. There was no shortages of those in Blue Section. He wasn't surprised when his receiver on his ear unit gave a beep. He opened the line.
"Veingard."
"Michael!" came the professional but highly tense voice of Mark Culhen. "You in Blue Section, right?"
"Affirmative." he answered neutrally, still jogging down a corridor.
"Thank God! Tyrone's units need help out in Corridor D 22. I'm sending sub-squad seventeen and twenty to help you, and they should be on your heels when your arrive. Normally I wouldn't ask this, but Tyrone's not the leader type and at this time..."
He cut him off with grunt, taking not of where he was. Corridor E 7. Not far. He increased his speed, maintaining his riffle and pistol at the ready. He never missed a beat. "I'm on it, Mark. What's the situation back at Red, Green and Yellow?."
A small silence, which meant Mark was certainly checking up on some things. Then his voice came back, strong and not as high-pitched as it usually was. "Red Sector's in very good shape, considering this section had the main armory that contain our lasers and best equipment. Laser blasts are doing a lot of damage, and I'm sure it'll be a pain of reconstruction, but the enemy's being repelled soundly there.
Green Section's being left alone pretty much - only a few skirmishes on the edges. But its the medical section, the enemy knows it can just wipe them out when the other sectors are taken." his voice became more grim, bitter "Right now its filling up with the wounded. Damn that traitor!"
Michael wholeheartedly agreed.
"Yellow Sector's...not much better than Blue. Julia and the Commander are there presently, keeping things together. It's holding...barely. On the bright side, I've got two good news."
"Which are?" he asked, reading the signs by force of habits. D 29, almost there.
"First, I've managed to link with MI6, and I've learned Wolfman's already sent heavy reinforcements. They should be there soon. The second piece of good news..." and his voice became almost feral at that "...is that I just found out who the bloody traitor is!"
Michael blinked, starting to pant from the exertion of running with heavy equipment. "You have."
"Bet I did, lad. That b*tch may be good at hiding her trail, but I f*cking DESIGNED the codes. It was easy to do a signature trace and find who had accessed our defense systems protocols."
"You said 'her'. It's a female agent, then." he paused. "Spill the beans, who is it?"
Mark was instantly uncomfortable. "Errr...well, you not gonna like this, lad, but I found out without a shred of doubt that its..."
Who it was as the level of riffle fire and screams suddenly got louder. He looked up. Corridor 24. Just ahead was that big hot spot. And from what he heard, it was more than hot. Some of the voices that screamed in pain he recognized, and he heard the distinctive sound of enemy fire, much more numerous, friendly fire weak.
It was no longer a hot spot. It was a darn volcano now! He gritted his teeth, hearing more screaming. Mark was asking if everything was okay, and he didn't answer, hearing the escalating conflict and knowing he had to act fast.
"Sorry, Mark. Tell me about the traitor later. Where are the sub-squads?"
"About two minutes behind you."
"F*ck!" the marksman cried, losing his usual phlegmatic attitude. "That position's not going to hold THIRTY SECONDS. There's no way that..." he trailed off. Wait. There was a way. One that no sensible person should take but, heh, who ever said he was sensible. Calm, yes. Sane, never. He sighed, a small smile upon his lips.
"Mark." he said softly. I'll take care of the first bunch. Should cause enough confusion so that the sub squads'll be able to take care of the rest of the jerks."
"Take care of them? By yourself? That's..." a shocked gasp on the other side. "Michael, don't you DARE do you what I think you're about to do!"
"And what are you gonna do about it? Spank me?" he said with a small point of humor. "Take care of yourself, my friend. Tell Nemmi I'm sorry." he reached for his ear piece.
"Michael...!" the Scot's voice was cut off as he removed the device, still wearing the resigned smiled on his lips. The screams had faded, replaced by angry, determined shouts. The defenders had been wiped out. The enemy was coming up the corridor. By the time the sub-squads arrived, they'd have been well-entrenched here. To remove them would have been costly.
But he was here. That meant less SCD kids were going to die. What did it matter if he did. He had delayed his date with death long enough, time to go out the scene. And if he was going out, he was going out with a bang!
He stood up and walked towards the approaching voices, his step determined unafraid. Had anyone looked at his face, they would have seen the look of a man who was going to die, knew it and wholefully accepted it. A serene but frightening look. And still that smile played on his lips. He rounded off the corner of the hot zone, taking a timer grenade set to zero seconds, and found himself face-to face with at least two dozen surprised men. They only stared at him for a second. He took hold of it.
"Let it be known that Michael Veingrad met his death on his feet!" he shouted.
It prompted the mercs into action. Many raised their riffle, as he pressed the activation button on the timer grenade. Riffles spotted fire, aimed at his chest. The kevlar couldn't stop them all, he knew that quite well. He groaned and gasped at the impacts, at the numbing pain that engulfed him. Still he didn't fall, although death was cofast for him, his vision blurry, his mouth filling with blood. He spat it out, and in once last defiant act, threw the grenade at them.
"HERE! A GIFT!" he screamed in agony. It detonated a great ball of fire and pain. And Michael Veingrad smiled for the last time.
'A good way to end it. If only I'd known who the traitor was' he thought fleetingly.
Then darkness.
* * * * * * * * * *
Five minutes later...
Taking over the door was easy. Strong steel alloy, two sentries. Sentries that hadn't been forewarned by a now-dead controller. Two sharpshooters took careful aim, squeezed of two shots from silencer-endowed pistols. The two Shadowlaw grunts crumpled immediately to the ground, one with a bullet between the eyes, the other with blown-open throat. As there were no windows anywhere that could be seen around this compound, Giorgio had felt safe sending the Laser Squad to blow the door.
Mere moments later Steve had given the order, and four reddish-white beams had shot from high-tech cannons and impacted upon the door. It held for a few seconds, then started turning red. And just before the firing sequence ended, there was a great grinding sound, and the doors literally blew apart, in one myriad of overheated bits of metal. The doorway beckoned, a gaping black hole that seemed to signify death.
Castillo, however, had no time for that kind of sentimentality, and neither had any of the men with him. The rescue team advanced, quickly and efficiently, but not using their wraithlike stealth anymore, for anyone inside the base must have both heard and felt that explosion. There would be a welcoming committee. A very angry and dangerous one.
They entered, Laser Squad on point, and found themselves facing half a dozen Shadowlaw soldiers. Fortunately, these grunts had just arrived, and were unprepared still. They fumbled with their riffles, but to late.
"FIRE!" shouted Steve, and four beams responded, this time backed with bullets from the AK-47s. Three soldiers were burned by the laser beam, while two were ripped apart by a fair amount of ammo. The last one looked around, panicked, and ran back through the left side of the fork they had in front of them. Giorgio came forward to inspect the corpses, his face grim but filled with dark humor. He looked back at Steve.
"Looks like they know we're here, huh? Time to move. Steve you and Jer take Laser Squad and four other men and head left. We'll handle the rest. Move fast, and get through anyone you see."
"Right."
"All right! Let's move it, Ninos!" bellowed the mission commander. At once the team broke in two: one heading left, the other right. It was a well-used tactic, and a sensible one. When in a base where it is outnumbered, an invading squad divides in two or more units, thus giving it increased speed of movement and the element of surprise. That effect had worked fully to their advantage thus far.
They followed the panting whine of the fleeing man through the left way, and got into another shooting match with four more soldiers. The nearest never had time to shoot, as Jer took the arm that held a gun, twisted that limb until it broke, and pushed the man's face hard against his knee, knocking the guy completely senseless. The other three - the coward with them, fired back in panic, hitting two of laser squads, who fell back but were otherwise unarmed because of the kevlar armor.
Steve shot down one with his Berreta, while the other two were mowed down by weapons fire. They immediately pressed on, one man shooting a riffle shot into the unconscious man. A dire thing, but this was battle, after all, and no one said anything. No one needed to.
They were coming up on another fork when, from the very ceiling it seemed, dropped a shadowy form. Half a dozen guns were immediately leveled at this new unknown threat, and Steve was prepared to give the order to fire, when Jeremy's voice rang out, not in fear or anger, but JOY.
"Ibuki! Haha! You damn ninja girl, thank you!" he shouted, rushing to the newbie's side and giving the person a sound, friendly smack on the shoulder. Steve ordered the men to stand down but remain vigilant and observed the figure.
Garbed all in black that was used so often for stealth and infiltration, the figure was slim and definitely feminine, with an almost unnatural grace. With one move, the woman took off the black cowl over her face, and Steve almost froze. This was the Ibuki that Mark and Jeremy spoke so highly of?!? Why, she mustn't have been more than seventeen! He could not believe someone so young could do so much.
But it wasn't a time for disbelief, and so, swallowing it, he approached the two, who were deep in a hurried, whispered conversation. "Okay, people." said the Canadian "Its nice to play catch-up, but we've got a mission to finish, and..." he nearly choked on his word when the shinobi stealthily sped down the right corridor. Jeremy gave him a level look.
"Follow her, Steve. She knows the way." and he moved after her, with nearly the same unnatural speed. Caught off-guard, it was all Steve could do to rally the others and follow, gritting his teeth against the annoying reckless streak World Warriors all seemed to have. They rushed after them.
They caught up as the two were mixing it out with ten infantry. Three were already down - two from knives sticking through their throat and one because of a powerful punch. However, the surprise had passed, and the seven remaining grunts had cornered the two on the other side of the square room, asking them to surrender. They were in the middle of obeying, all smiles. Steve and his team of seven were upon them in a second, tearing through.
Three went down by bullets. Another got his neck twisted by the ninja when his attention was diverted, and Jeremy disarmed another, clobbering him with the rifle. The two survivors, recognizing their situation, laid down their weapons, just as Ibuki was taking off some kind of card, talking to Jeremy fast. there was another corridor, only fifteen feet deep, and the two were quickly jogging down there.
They looked determined but almost...almost...almost what? Whatever it was, it gave even Steve Goosebumps, for all his experience. He ran after them, determined to stop whatever scheme had been cooked up. As he reached them, he found the ninja fiddling with the door's control, Jeremy looking back at him. Waiting.
"Okay now, Storm." he stated quite crossly "What the HELL do you think you're doing?!?"
"Answering a challenge that was tacitly posed." was the calm answer.
"What?!? Have you forgotten that we're here to get Cammy out of here?? What's gotten into you."
"Nothing. Cammy matters more than anything to me right now. But she would've wanted me to take care of those fair and square." he explained, tense.
"Who?"
"'What' would be better." stated the Shinobi, her voice surprisingly young and bright. The door opened. Jeremy turned around.
The other side was a rather large antechamber, probably a guardroom or something, from the weapons racks and computers the lined a wall. There was a door on the other side. And, blocking that door were two women.
That was his first impression. Just two women. Nothing serious. Then he saw the vacant expression in their eyes, and his impression changed. Wrong, not JUST two women. These were killers, devoid of emotion, devoid of humanity and - from their eyes - devoid of true sentience. Like...like Cammy when she had been kept at Interpol, before they found way to help her there. He gripped Jeremy's shoulder.
"Those are Bison's dolls, huh?" he asked, although it wasn't really a question. All he received was a nod. Dolls. Here. But then... "They're watchdogs! They're guarding the prisoner!"
"Right. Once through them, we will be able to help Cammy." said Ibuki.
Steve nodded." Good. We'll blast them, then. Then we can force the door and..."
"No." Jeremy, cold, his voice containing a rising wrath that was tinged with apprehension. "We gotta do this the old-fashioned way. Don't worry, they'll get theirs for helping in abducting her." a dark smile appeared, increasing Steve's unease. Still the Canadian sought to convince the younger manot to enter the fight, no matter what he felt he had to do. But he never had a chance to.
In one swift move the gray-eyed American had turned around, planting his feet in Steve's stomach. The kevlar protected, but he was still flung ten feet back, breathless. His men were coming behind him, he heard them as he moved painfully erect again. Jeremy gave him a wave of apology, and even a smile 'v'.
However, the man's eyes were angry, shadowed. Desperate.
And then the doors closed, slammed shut. Steve gave out a marvelous amalgam of Canadian curses that would have seared the skin out of any of his countrymen, and tapped his ear device angrily.
"Giorgio. Come in! We gotta a problem! That fool..." he started.
"We got more than just a problem, amigo." came the Spanish voice. It sounded worried and hollow. Giorgio never sounded like that. Worried, maybe. Hollowed, NEVER. He wondered what was up. When he discovered what it was, his entire being was gripped by fear.
"HQ's under attack. It's bad, Steve. Seems like Michael's just died there."
* * * * * * * * * *
Twenty minutes later...
Colonel Wolfman peered at the chaos that had once been the octagons base and the defense- riddled lawn of the SCD Headquarters through a small window in the armed chopper he was in. He was scowling as he took stock of the many holes that had been practiced in the walls of the compound, of the mercenary forms that milled about those holes and mostly at the fact that nothing had been placed to stop the advance of that army. The report he had received was true, then: the defense systems HAD been sabotaged.
"I can't believe that a mercenary army would have the GALL to attack the heart of England." said a nearby soldier. Wolfman nodded with the others, but wasn't as surprised. In all his years in MI6, he'd come to learn that mercenaries would do ANYTHING for money. Anything. This attack, however, must a cost quite a bundle.
'No time to theorize.' he thought blandly. 'You've got hundreds of Her Majesty's best trapped in there, and your boys got to help them get out of this mess.' He left the window and looked to his men, tapping a radio link.
"Everyone of you hear this. This is Colonel Wolfman of MI6 Division. Our choppers will land shortly where the enemy troops are tinniest, in SCD Red Section. The enemy's buckling there, and we're going out there to make damn sure that these bastards get kicked out of England. Remember, our job is to enter the compound, reinforce the SCD still fighting there, and wait until the regular armed forces wipe out the rest in about five minutes. Everyone knows the specifics. Godspeed." Not a bad little speech. Staying in touch with the troops was the key, he knew. High morale in that case. He turned to the pilot. "Land right in the middle of the bastards."
"What?" the pilot exclaimed, incredulous. "But sir, they'll shoot us down before..."
"Man these choppers will need more than riffle fire to go down. Now lay down strafing fire and land the damn thing! We'll be fine..."
"In your opinion..."
"Right. MY opinion. But since I'M the commander of this mission, MY opinion is all that counts. Land, that's an order. You people, be ready to let your riffles thunder around."
They did land, in fact better than they had thought to at first. The strafing fire from the choppers was with heavy ammo, and scattered the mercs directly around them. As so, after being hit rather ineffectively by the attacking army and responding more strongly, sixty-five mark 3 troop helicopters landed, not farther than thirty meters from each other. Inside each, twelve MI6 soldiers, arrayed in kevlar and riffles, awaited the chance to go out and give some to the enemy.
It was no exception in the main chopper, for Wolfman could see that urge, that very need, in the face of every of the eleven that stood with him. Hell, he certainly felt that very thing himself! He took hold of the opening latch and gave the others a level and determined look that would have made any of the enemy outside shiver.
"LET'S KICK THEIR A**ES, BOYS!!!" he bellowed, and he heard a rough howl of acknowledgement as he pulled the door open with force. And they literally burst out of the chopper, gunning down any of the grunts that came their way.
There was a rumor that went around the fighting circles and the army barracks in the world. It largely told that the English, which had once been a civilization of warriors and daring adventurers, who had forged the largest empire the world had ever known, had shrunken to polite, spineless once-had beens. It was more than probable that the mercs who were attacking the compound had thought that very clearly.
Well, if the SCD defense didn't disillusion them, the MI6 certainly did. Swift, deadly and thoroughly efficient, the elite soldiers of Her Majesty swarmed up the merc lines, anything but either polite or spineless. The enemy line was weak, pummeled from inside, and outnumbered by the fresh and well-armed strike force that came from outside. Caught between a defiant anvil and a furious hammer, the enemy line broke like ice.
The exchange of fire was intense, and for each two mercs, a MI6 soldier fell, but the reinforcements soon won the upper hand in this fight where no quarter was given or asked. They broke through the wall, scattering and killing the attackers. Inside, a ragged and tired cheer went up as what was happening became clear. It was nearly an ovation when Wolfman entered the Red Section.
Nearly. Not quite. Too many lives, too many friends and comrades had been lost in that free-for-all of a battle for anyone to really cheer even SCD's saviors. Wolfman didn't mind. In fact, the one who should be cheered, he felt, were those kids. Taken by surprise, betrayed by someone inside the organization, these men and women had rallied and obviously forced the enemy to struggle to gain even an inch.
Someone had once told Wolfman the younger generations weren't fighters. He hoped to see the man again, to tell him that he was an ignorant old fool. These youths were proof of how wrong the idea was.
He didn't stop to be congratulated or to congratulate, instead focusing on finding the read and green uniform worn by the Elite SCD, and found one. A man of about thirty, an arm in a sling, grasping a Berreta. He didn't know the man but knew that he was the only elite here and, by that, the highest-ranking SCD in the place. He read the name tag. Lt.-Comdr. Smith.
"Commander. We'll secure the perimeter and then reinforce every weakened position in the base." behind him, a great flow of MI6 were efficiently teaming up with SCDs, doing just that.
"Thank you, sir." said the other man, tired but resolute.
"I wish to speak with Major Brisby. Can you put me in contact with him?" he asked. A logical venture: Brisby and he together could hold off anyone. However, instead of the prompt "Yessir!" he had expected, the man looked stricken. Wolfman suddenly felt as if the room, so hot with smoke, and sweat and blood, had turned into an iceberg. "What is it? Speak up, man!"
"I...I'm sorry sir. Major Brisby was mortally wounded while organizing the defenses of Yellow Section."
NO!!! Screamed a voice inside his head. Ever since their first mission twenty-eight years before, Wolfman had never seen Brisby getting even a scratch. The man was swift, decisive, always taking the right decisions. He'd never been hit. To Wolfman, his friend had always seemed to be an unstoppable force, a force that had taken the fight to terrorists, fanatics and drug-dealers everywhere and had forged his own organization to that effect.
For a moment, the commander of MI6 was too stunned by surprise and grief to speak. Then anger replaced it. He took hold ofg that anger, harnessed it to keep the walls of his discipline intact. Grief would come later, he knew. Not now.
"Well..." he had to cough to find his voice. "Who's the highest ranking SCD active here?"
"That would be me, sir."
Wolfman saw a an average man holding a pistol coming his way, his gait alert and denoting aptitudes that seemed to belie the high-pitched voice, the thin face. The accent was Scottish, that was sure.
"are?"
"Captain Mark Culhen, fourth-in command of the London SCD." The voice was sad, knowing it said it meant there were three before him who couldn't command. Wolfman sympathized.
"Captain, then I'll relieve you of command from you temporarily."
"Thank you sir. It's just as well, actually. I'm on a personal mission right now."
Wolfman didn't know how to feel about that. "What would that be?" In answer, Culhen gave out a very nasty smile, a smile that hinted at suppressed anger. A very dangerous look that would have made lesser men step back. Wolfman did not. The scot showed his pistol.
"I'm gonna catch the one who betrayed all of us." he said. And then he was gone, running down an hallway. The colonel looked in that direction a moment longer, than turned to giving orders. Someone passed him an ear-link device, and soon he was speaking with SCD and MI6 Elite both.
The plan was simple: reinforce all positions, evacuate the gravely wounded and, most of all, HOLD. Retreat was not an option. Until the Regular Army arrived, they had to hold, or SCD would be crippled too badly.
SCD was Brisby's dream. The man had forged it, held it together, and died for it.
And Wolfman would be damned if he'd let bloody MERCS destroy what his friend fought so hard to bring to life.
* * * * * * * * * *
Around that time...
Perhaps it had been stupid not to let Steve take these two dolls out with weapons fire. In fact, it most probably had been. Only he hadn't wanted to. No because he wanted to save Cammy himself - although saving her was always part of his decisions lately - nor because of the honor of the fight.
The reason why had been much simpler: Bison was gone, and these two dolls were extensions of the bastard. As such, he had found the perfect target to pass his rage on, a person with whom he could give in to the violence that had been surging through him all the while the battle went.
Juli and Juni were their name, these two dolls. Which was which he had no clue and cared not one little bit. He had taken on the brown-haired one because she was the closest to him, letting Ibuki take care of the other. He had gone into the fight with all he had.
And right now, as he blocked a blow from his enemy, he was still giving it all. That doll was also giving it her all, however. She was strong, surprisingly strong, and extremely fast and nimble. He wondered if Bison had pumped them with his power before he went the-devil-knew-where, and found it likely. The guy had gone to a certain length to reclaim his once-agent, and wasn't the type to let things escape him easily. Yes, she was juiced up. Fine by him, he WANTED this fight to be messy.
He returned the blow, catching the doll at the base of the jaw, pushing her backward. She stumbled as her head was snapped back, and he followed like a predator, laying into her with all of his strength. However, the stamina of this agent was incredibly increased, and she took the hits without much damage, her face showing not a hint of discomfort.
In fact it showed not a hint of anything, except the eyes, which had an eerie purplish glow to them and always seemed to glare. Eventually she blocked, took hold of his arm, pivoted and threw him away. He flew right into a wire panel, disrupting some circuits and well-nigh getting electrocuted. He groaned when he impacted, his back blazing red pain, but he ignored it, scrambling on his feet and taking his fighting stance a bare moment after his crash.
"SNIPING ARROW!"
He heard that at the very last moment, and found himself unable to move in time to dogde the quick attack that came his way. It hit him straight in the face, breaking his nose in the process. His vision blurred for a moment as pain overrode the synapses of his brain, but ragefully forced it all to recede. He thus saw her crouching in front of him on moment before her next attack went.
"CANNON SPIKE!"
It almost hit him. He scrambled backward by instinct, narrowly missing being thrust upward painfully and unceremoniously, but still went down on his behind, dazed. He shook his head and cleared it, seeing the doll was still up finishing her upward, chi-driven thrust. He smiled briefly, forgetting the ache of his arms, the blaze that was his back and the dripping, throbbing thing that was his nose.
He went deep within himself, channeling his own power, using it in a way that he had practiced but never used before in a fight. Chi flowed through his right arm, concentrating, until a gray-white hue surrounded it. His muscles went taut,. trying to contain the power, but still he waited, waited as she descended, and was at just the right angle. Then he released it, swinging his fist upward, giving the chi he had gathered the chance to explode.
"SKY BREAKER!"
Although his fist had not been near enough to hit her, she gasped as the chi that burst through his arm imitated the swinging movement, catching her in the abdomen, flinging her backward. She crashed to the floor, coming to her feet again. But not as swiftly. That shot had told.
Her movement were a bit shaky now. Still she came on, and he let her. He blocked her fist, swiped her feet from under her, but she followed the swipe, flipping backward and coming back on her feet fast enough to deliver a strong blow on the neck that he barely avoided. Another punch followed however, across his jaw, and he stumbled backward.
And that was IT. At that very moment he stopped simply wanting to defeat this opponent, it became a need, a focus upon which days of guilt, helplessness and anger rallied. He reached down, reached for the chi that hid within him like he never had before in his life, even when he had fought Thomas years ago.
Unlike that time, however, his anger did not explode, it cooled him, leaving only the obsessive need to win and a dark ruthlessness. He let chi flow through his arms, his feet, every part of his being, and threw himself back into the fight like a madman.
She was pushed back by the force of the punches and kicks she received. For each that connected, some thing strained, sometimes greatly. Her left arm broke when she blocked a kick of particular viciousness, and an expression of suffering flickered in her eyes. Still he moved in, unrelenting, wishing this doll broken so completely and so utterly that it would never bother anyone again.
His pain was gone, so focused was he. The world was gone. Everything. At that very moment, in the heat of the exchange, he forgot why he was here. All that he wanted was to win, to make this damn thing suffer, and it was exactly what he was doing.
It lasted one instant, one instant on which all that mattered was all, except this. And then reality reasserted itself, and he relented, stepping back. He looked over and examined his opponent.
It was still standing, but in very bad shape, far worse than his. Red marks showed on the skin that had been hit, her left arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, and her breath came fast, rough. She was nearing the end of her line. Bison's power that maybe, but when the body failed, the power could do nothing.
He looked at this woman, who had never done anything to him, who was only an innocent victim, taken by Bison, her spirit broken by physical, mental and psychic abuse, and felt pity and not just a little bit of guilt at what he was doing. However, he didn't consider stopping.
He darted a look at the other side, and was surprised to see Ibuki and that other drone still locked in combat. In the heat of battle, he had completely forgotten them both. However, he saw that the young Shinobi was gaining a distinct upper hand, and decided he to forget them again for the time being. Although he was short of breath himself, sweating, he managed to rally his strength.
"If there's still a woman inside of you." he said "I want her to know I'm sorry." And he returned with what remained of his strength.
Both were winded, both were wounded and both had their own kind of determination. However, Jeremy had it going at a far higher level, using the power that emotions gave, the power that she lacked. She lurched back, he charged. He gave an opening, she went for it. This deadldance went on for a while, both giving out all they could.
Then the brunette slipped. A minor thing, that wouldn't have taken her a second to rectify when they had begun to fight. At this point, however, she was drained, and it would have taken her a moment more to get her feet back in place. For a single moment, she opened her guard.
Jeremy took that moment, pivoting upon himself and delivering a crushing back kick to her abdomen. She went crashing into the wall he had crashed into a moment before. Still she stood. Barely, but she stood. H egritted his teeth. Was there no end to that thing? He couldn't keep this on forever. She was so juiced up, she seemed to withstand things that normally would have knocked her out cold!
That's when he decided to use it. His own technique, based on the Flare Talon, a technique he wasn't certain he could withstand. He reached out into his will, his spirit, his very soul, and drew out all the chi he could, bringing his fists forward, palm outward, one upon the other.
Her forced the chi outward, through his arms, into his hands. Channeled it, piling the charge, powering up. Veins on his forearms and hands swelled, threatened to burst, and he started to hyperventilate. Still he held. All his life, no matter what, he had held. This was no different.
focusfocusfocusbreathebreathegodithurtsfocusfocusbreathedamnbreathenowreadyitsreadyreleaseitnowreleaseitnowNOWNOWNOW!!!!
"FLARE NOVA!!!!!!!!!" he screamed.
And it was then that a giant claw, much like the Flare Talon but bigger and far greater in potency, burst through his palms, heading toward its intended victim much like the very claw of a bird, a freak of lightning come to claim its prize. It hit the doll full force, causing every circuit in the wall to go crazed, adding their own power.
For a moment, the combined power of electricity and chi created a veritable oven of energy, in the middle of which writhed the body of a human being. A scream went of, very human, all fear and pain, and Jeremy closed his eyes as he saw her cook alive in the little inferno. Her scream continued for many seconds, and then stopped. The energy dissipated, but the electricity still surged through her body.
From the sweet, nauseating smell of scorched meat he got, he knew there was no hope for her. Nobody could survive that. He hadn't counted on his attack creating the chain reaction, and he was sorry, but the result was the same.
Whether voluntarily or not, he had killed her.
He went to his knees, hands flat against the floor, trying to regain his strength. It was slow in coming. The Flare Nova had been a desperate gamble, and not one he wished to reiterate. After a minute or two, however, his body started to respond almost normally again. That's when he felt someone behind him.
He whirled to find himself face-to-face with an Ibuki who seemed even more at the end of her strength than he. Drained, but exultant, however. He looked behind her, and saw the blonde doll's crumpled, unmoving form.
"Q-q-quite...a...hh...s-show." she said.
"Yeah...cough...Is she...hff...dead?" he asked. A very reluctant, very slow nod. He understood. "Yeah...I'm...I'm sorry about it too."
"But there was no choice." she said.
"None." And one day, we might actually bring ourselves to believe that, he thought. He waved at the door, knowing Steve was certainly thinking about blowing it up and them with it by now. "Go open that, please, Ibuki. I-I'll go get her."
A far more ready, far less uncertain nod. She however raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Will you be alright?"
He nodded, getting to his feet shuffling toward the other door, his thoughts again fully occupied by Cammy's condition, the need to find her, to tell her she is safe, to bring her back home. However, deep down inside him, he heard the doll's scream. He heard it quite clearly.
And he knew he had gotten out of this battle with his humanity intact, for he felt only sadness and guilt from it. He found himself asking his spirit this question: Was Cammy White worth all this?
And his spirit answered: Yes. She is worth more than anything to me.
* * * * * * * * * *
Ten minutes later...
Nemmi Shiwasa was calmly strolling inside Green Sector. The day had gone well. The plan that her true master - not that weak do-gooder Brisby - had engineered was now well in hand, and she free to continue as if nothing had happened. For, as far as the others were concerned, nothing had. A failure of the defense system because of an outside virus was implanted, that was it, that was all.
The firing had almost stopped now, the combined forces of SCD, MI6 and the Regular Army hard at work putting down the last pocket of mercenaries, reveling in their victory. She smirked. The fools. They were playing right into her master's hands and they didn't even fathom it. The SCD organization was now crippled by its losses. It would be so EASY to sow discord among them now. And if she could put the blame on Mark for his electronic incompetence, it would...
"Ye must be feeling very proud of yerself, huh lass?" came a voice. A voice she both knew and yet did not. The incredible high-pitch of it, the heavy Scottish accent, that all bespoke of Mark Culhen. But the usual cynicism of the man was gone, replaced by a rough, deadly edge. She turned.
There he was, standing not ten feet from her, his poise tense, deadly. His normally teasing eyes were now hard and cold, and his jaw, usually relaxed, was drawn tight. He looked like a predator finding a prey which had wounded it. A very frightening image, to be sure, and it did cause her to become wary.
But she wasn't afraid. She had surmised that one might find out the truth. But that one was the Elite that had been taken because of his computer and engineering genius. He wasn't a fighter at all, just a darn computer geek. She could handle him most amongst all of them.
"Mark!" she said, her voice showing relief. "Its so good to see you! It was terrible, if you could see all the wounded the medics are treating, all the..."
"Shut up, ye damn traitor." he hissed "I know all about the systems failure. Ye were good, Nemmi, very good. Hid all traces of the little shit ye did. Except the mainframe always kept safe copies of any tempering. The way it was hacked, the terminal, the positions - the codes." he went silent. What he left unsaid went without saying.
Nemmi had expected it, of course. A geek Mark may be, but he WAS a computer genius. It was reasonable that he had put safeguards on the Headquarters programs, and electronic recorders as well. She shrugged nonetheless, dropping the act she had taken on these last few months. It wasn't needed with this one anymore. But the man was alone, unaided. That was his mistake.
He seemed not to notice that fact, however, as he unbuckled his pistol, holding it in front of her. "I should just shoot ye like a dog for what ye did to us. Michael's death alone demands it. But I shan't. If I did, ye'd escape SCD justice, and I wouldn't wanta do that. Ye deserve more, after all, than just being shot." He dropped the pistol, and it clattered on the floor.
She laughed. "What? English justice? Don't make me laugh, baka! Your system's so rotten, I'll be out before you even blink."
His only answer was a very frosty smile, that contained something that almost actually made her shiver. "I'm not speaking of English justice. SCD takes care of its own, lass."
She wasn't listening anymore. She wasn't armed, or else she would've shot the fool the moment she'd seen him. However, she had had advanced hand-to-hand training that a geek like Culhen could not hope to match. Seeing him so confident, unarmed, she crouched and jumped, kicking at him.
But then he shifted, dodged the swift kick, bringing his fist hard on her ribs, making her cry out. The cry was cut short, however, as his knee connected with her abdomen with surprising strength. She saw stars, her breath was cut off, and she was completely befuddled and actually scared now.
How did that guy manage that? She tried to recover, but one that blossom at the back of her neck outmatched the pain that surged inside her. Slowly, she felt herself into unconsciousness. She manage to turn her head slightly, eying the cold Scottish face.
"But you're just a darn...geek..." she muttered. He gave a short, macabre laugh filled with contempt.
"Ye thought they'd let me into the ELITE if I didn't know how to fight?!?" he spat on her, disgusted. "PSAW! Ye are a FOOL!!!"
She struggled a bit against the darkness, trying to keep her consciousness, but ultimately failed. She drifted off with Mark Culhen's face looking down at her. And as she did, a frightening question sparked off, just before the dark.
WHAT was SCD justice, anyway?
* * * * * * * * * *
Around the same time...
Cammy was jerked into groggy wakefulness by shouts and a terrific commotion from inside the lab. She wondered what it was, her wits sluggish. They'd drugged her to run more tests before starting their experiments, and she had no idea how long she'd been out. What was happening around here?
Fear. That's what she felt from her surrounding. Paralyzing fear. She caught a glimpse of movement and saw a form. A dark form, making its way to her, very quickly. Probably Bison, who else would make these doctors so panicky. That's right, Bison. Coming to hurt her again. Funny, normally that would have scared her a lot more. She guessed being drugged had at least one benefit.
The form stopped right next to her. She could see a little better now. It was definitely a man. But not Bison. A smaller man, that one. The man stopped, gave a strangled noise, and took a definite step back. Now she was confused. What was that guy doing? No one here had ever shown any grief, and that was what she felt vaguely. Grief. Grief and hate, but not hate that was directed at her. She tried to sort it out, couldn't. The man seemed to scan all across her, then put his hand on his face, and gave out a noise that now confused her even more.
A sob. A very loud sob. No man of Bison ever would have dared.
The man stepped right next to her, again, and reached out an hand, touching her cheek slightly, she jerked sideways, not trusting this, knowing what had happened before, when someone had done that. The hand stopped, turned, snarled something - that voice, that wasn't possible!
And then she felt the metal bands removing themselves from her waist, her neck, her legs and arms. She was shocked, but even more so when the man turned back. He came into focus suddenly, as he spread a blanket a frightened medic gave him on her.
The face that looked back at her was young, but bruised and grieved. Tear-filled gray eyes fixed her with great tenderness, while there was a bittersweet smile on his lips. The man was lean but athletic, dressed partly in elite kevlar garb. She recognized the man at once, and for one moment she thought that, maybe, finally, she'd gone mad. She blinked.
But no. He was still there, lifting her in his arms, and clutching her for a moment, with a relief and a warmth she felt right through the blanket. That's when the drug finally dissipated, and she fully realized what was happening.
"You'll be okay, I got you. Oh, Cammy, I'll never let him, damn him, he'll burn for this, forgive me..." he babbled. She heard a commotion. Other voices, also familiar, if less so. Other SCD, she realized. She did not look at them, but instead looked at the one who held her, her own eyes blurry with tears. Tears of relief, tears of joy.
"Jer..." she whispered. He looked down at her. "You....really know...how to make...a dramatic pose." she nearly smiled. So did he. She closed her eyes. "I....knew....that you'd come....somehow..."
And she fell asleep. Not a painful sleep, not a drugged one. A restorative sleep, something she'd never had in days. It was okay. She was safe with him, with them.
She was going home.
* * * * * * * * * *
Two hours later...
Kale crouched, holding a child toy, in front of the child that Everick and he had taken from folk who were gone by now. A little baby that possessed immense potential, one that he had personally decided to name Dessara. He looked at the child in a sort of fond puzzlement, his smile he wore lacking its usual manic edge. In front of him, the baby giggled, trudging along on all fours, trying to reach the toy. He kept it out of reach for a while, observing.
"Why are you so important to that guy, little Dessara?" he whispered "The man could have ground me to powder if he'd wanted to, gotten you out himself. Why didn't he? And why the warning at all?"
The child could not answer, of course. She gurgled happily, her small, pudgy hand having finally reached the toy. She tugged at it and he held out against her for a moment. I answer, the second hand grasped the toy, and she tugged. Stubbornly. With good strength for such a little one. He felt very glad of what he was seeing.
"You have a strong will, and not a little bit of greed, huh?" he said "Good, that will be useful to you later on. This world won't give you anything if you don't fight for it, tear what you want from it." he stopped as he heard someone - an acolyte, he felt - hesitantly bowing, and clearing his throat. He already knew the reason for the man's presence, and as such was annoyed.
"Speak." he said.
"Milord." was the hesitant answer "The attack on SCD Headquarters has been repelled - with horrid casualties for both sides."
He nodded. The outcome had been designed such by his older brother, for vague reason he had not explained, even to Kale himself. He looked down at the child, still tugging, growing frustrated. His smile changed then, becoming the manic one the Circle Elders themselves were uncomfortable with. He let go of the toy and Dessara squealed in victory. He picked her up and turned to the acolyte.
"I am aware of that. Aware of this failure. You dare disturb me with such news while I visit my most probable heir." he showed his teeth, his smile becoming carnal. "You have some nerve, acolyte."
The man blanched. "F-f-forgive me, Lord Kale! It was Master Brenos who insisted that..."
"No excuses." he looked at the child in his arms, who was watching the toy most giddily. "Dessara, let me show you what you shall do to weak fools later in your life!" And before the acolyte could make a move, he had grabbed the man by the throat and infused him with destructive energy. The man screamed, clutching at Kale's arm, but the grip was pure steel, unrelenting. The screams lessened as spasms took over.
Dessara, still held by one arm, started to wail at the sounds of agony. Kale kept his cold gaze upon the dying man and with a with a surge of power, cut the trachea. The man was dead before he hit the floor. He held the sniffling child over the corpse, so that she could see it.
"That is death, Dessara. Never forget it. Never forget that YOU have the power to do that." he stepped over the corpse, outside the room, holding the child preciously. "My brother, Bison, will teach you that. Yes, little one, you're going to Shadowlaw to make that weirdo happy. And I'll be happy too. Bison will take good care of you." he laughed, and the child giggled with him, her fear already forgotten
"He won't give you toys like I do, but he'll teach you many things. Within two decades, probably less, you'll be a weapon. Not a doll like Juli or Juni, but someone with a will, power, and utter loyalty in Bison and his goal." he looked at her "I can hardly wait to see the end result." again he laughed as he continued his round.
And the small child giggled in her innocence.
