Lara Croft in the Search for Xanadu
By
Neil Stokes
This story contains some violence and bad language.
Thanks to Eva, Chris and Jess.
Tomb Raider, Lara Croft, her image and likeness are trademark and copyright © of EIDOS Interactive and Core Design. No infringement or challenge to these copyrights is intended.
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Chapter 1: A Day in the Life
Scorched in the sun, the plain of grass bent double by the day's hot breath, a statue breaks the endless horizon. Of human shape, it looms dark against the flawless sky while in its shadow shell casings lay scattered among the stubs of burnt out flares. A pair of scuffed boots dangle in the air. The statue's savage face is turned towards the sky, its extended arm ending in a giant's fist closed around the swollen flesh of a woman's neck. Held out like an offering to the sun, Lara Croft hangs motionless from the gallows of the statue's grip.
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Lara awoke to the clashing cymbals of panic. Wherever she was, at whatever time, she emerged from sleep like a half-drowned man flailing for the surface. She never sat up drenched in sweat and crying out like in the movies; she had learned to slam the panic down and extinguish it with a characteristic, precise efficiency. But controlling this reflex took so much out of her she could never learn to accept sleep as anything more than a necessary, curative task: staying in bed and enjoying the drowsy pleasure of warm ruffled sheets was a very rare thing for her. She didn't regret it; there was little Lara Croft ever regretted.
On a day like this, however, she came as near as she ever did to regret. She had a meeting with a stranger; one of the many rich venal egoists she was forced to associate with in order to be able to do what she lived for: stealing to order from tombs. Attracted more by the danger than the archaeological aspects or the financial reward, she was nevertheless dependant upon these wealthy collectors, a dependence she hated but as with regret, not a feeling she generally allowed herself to entertain. Lara Croft would be quite prepared to shoot you in the face but rarely out of hate.
Her routine varied little when she was at home: an inherited, largely empty mansion in the south of England. Foregoing breakfast, the major part of any typical morning at home was occupied with a workout. Lara Croft had no husband to deal with, no children to look after and no pets to pamper but she had a passion and lavished attention on anything connected with her working life – if running around ancient buried ruins could be considered a worthwhile occupation.
Her private assault course was her pride and joy; built to her specifications she had overseen every detail of its construction down to the smallest nail. She stood now on the first wooden platform dressed in combat fatigues, the cold morning air prickling her skin and the grey English sky shifting above her. Ahead lay a series of demanding obstacles that she contemplated for a moment before closing her eyes, stretching her arms out to her sides and inhaling deeply. Her muscles coiled beneath her clothes, raising her to the tips of her toes. She continued to build the tension in her body until it begged to be unleashed. At the very moment she was about to launch herself forward a rattling sound intruded. Her look of irritation disappeared instantly when she turned and saw the hunched, slow-moving figure of Winston approaching from the house. Her ageing butler was an unending source of amusement to her, from his tottering walk to his fierce protective devotion. And although this strong-willed, spirited woman would never admit it, he was also one of her few sources of affection. "Thought you might like a cuppa tea to get yer blood moving, Miss Lara," said the elderly butler whose grip on life seemed as precarious as his grip on the tea tray.
Lara couldn't help smiling at his comic way of shuffling, which put the tea things in imminent danger of crashing to the gravel. She had a great fondness for this old man. When her father, Lord Henshingly Croft, if anything even more strong-willed than his proud daughter, had thrown her out of the family for refusing to follow the future he had sketched out for her, Winston had surprised everyone by resigning immediately in order to go and look after Lara. He felt that this young girl, as ironic as it might seem, wouldn't last ten minutes in the brutal world by herself. "How kind but I think I'll take tea at the end of the course," she said.
He came to a slow halt before looking up, taking a few seconds to focus. "Right you are, Miss Croft. I'll be waiting on yer pleasure at the end, shall I?" Without pausing for an answer he turned slowly and began shuffling in the other direction. Before he had taken two steps Lara's shadow swept over him as she leapt past, running and bounding along the assault course like a trained gymnast. Not surprisingly it was she who was waiting at the end and when he finally arrived she had already fully recovered from her exertion.
"It's still hot, isn't it?" he enquired as she took a sip.
"Yes, lovely," she lied.
"May I ask what your plans are today, Miss Lara?" he asked.
"I have a meeting with a gentleman in 'The Dorchester'."
"A young gentleman?" prompted Winston hopefully.
"I don't know if he's young," replied Lara with a grin, "but he's certainly very rich."