Author's Note: *hangs head in shame* I know, I know… you don't have to say anything. It took me ages, and I am feeling truly awful about that. Here… take this as a peace offering *hands out yummy chocolate cookies*
angelic katty: All questions will be answered in time, fear not.
RogueSparrow: Hehe, you used the old name for Shane West's band, cool. They're called 'Johnny Was' now ~_^
Sethoz: You don't hate me? *faints* Wow… never thought I'd see the day, lol. Top-notch? Groovy. I'd have a short temper if I was a werewolf too, lol. And it's settled… AOL hates us -_-
drowchild: Glad you liked that bit; one of my faves too.
Kame-sama: Thanks for the heads-up… shame I didn't know before, d'oh! Appreciate you letting me know though. Glad you like my work too.
Somehow it felt odd to use heightened senses unintentionally when sighting down the barrel of a gun, the weight of the weapon no longer bothersome, and be able to pick out the red buoy bobbing along on the waves as though it were dancing. Tom let out a breath as he pulled the trigger, watching with mute satisfaction as the target was destroyed on impact, with a crack like thunder exploding from the gun and making him wince, his now-sensitive hearing aggravated by the noise.
Before the other man even spoke, Tom was reloading the rifle – having smelt him, rather eerily, on the slight breeze – and saying, "Did you want something?"
Déjà vu…
"No," Quatermain said to him, closing the hatch, and hanging back whilst Tom called for another target, arcing the gun with it, pausing, and letting off the shot before the buoy had even splashed down, and half-destroying it. The right side was blown completely off by the powerful impact from the elephant gun, loaned to Tom Sawyer by the hunter himself in order to 'relax'.
Quatermain stepped up beside him, and regarded him with mild respect and pride. "Good shot."
"Missed it by a few inches though," Tom pointed out, placing the butt of the rifle down onto the floor below him and hearing it clang dully. "A little to the left and I would've got it."
"My eyesight isn't as bad as some may think, Sawyer," the hunter pressed, a whimsical smile on his lined face. "That shot was impressive, and don't pretend you're not proud of it yourself."
Tom closed his eyes, lifting his chin slightly to let the wind play coolly and refreshingly over his skin as he murmured, "It's not that… that doesn't bother me so much." His head dropped forward, and he rolled his neck, shrugging his shoulders to loosen the tense muscles, before glancing solidly at Quatermain and saying, "It's the ease I do it with that's frightening."
Without even realising, he lifted the elephant gun – not a light object by any means – and tossed it to the hunter, who was nearly barrelled over by the weapon. Tom winced an apology, and sighed.
"You see what I mean?"
"You needn't think of this as a curse, Sawyer," Quatermain offered, resting Matilda against the railing after staring out at the horizon for a pensive moment. "You could look on it as an unfortunate blessing… one that enables you to react faster, run quicker, and you now have a strength that is unique to no one in the League but you. I saw it in your eyes before… when I taught you how to shoot…" – the man paused with a wry smirk here – "that you felt isolated from the others due to your lack of supernatural gifts." He shrugged his shoulders casually, ending with a lazy, "That's not the case anymore, Sawyer, and whether you like it or not, it's not going to change… my advice – if you want it – is to use it… learn to master it, and apply it in your endeavours."
Tom regarded Quatermain, squinting slightly in the sun, for a long moment, thinking over what the man had just said, before smiling and letting a slight nod move his head up and down. Finally, he let out a gentle laugh, sighing, and saying, "I knew there was a reason I was glad you came back."
The fact that their journey had taken little less than only four days was a technological marvel… one that was lost on the three as they stepped from the advanced boat, clad in black and greys, neutral shades that left everything to the imagination. Coupled with their dark, foreboding expressions, and the formation in which they moved, they really were a sight to behold… and then move aside from very quickly. Which was exactly what the pedestrians did when within ten feet of the three.
Falx, Gladius and Lacertus strode confidently and without breaking pace down the street to headquarters, deep down in the underground levels of the historical landmark building in the centre of the city. Their eyes were set straight ahead, stoic but carrying a visible undertone of ferocity if anyone so much as dared to disturb their path.
Falx and Gladius walked side-by-side, very much dominant over Lacertus, who strode behind them as a kind of shadowing guardian, lower down in the chain of command and seemingly not in the least perturbed by the fact. He strode purposefully behind the two alphas, his ankle-length cloth black coat swimming out behind him in the gentle breeze and leaving a wake after his passing.
Falx and Gladius wore similar jackets, the former's to her calves, and the latter's to his thighs. Falx appeared oddly masculine in her surroundings, and her fiery hair with its brushes of blonde was a noticeable contrast to the melancholy shades of their attire.
Due to their pace, and the lack of obstruction – even cabs moved aside for them, the horses shying and giving sharp whinnies that only served to bring a wry grin to Gladius' face – it did not take the three long to reach their destination. They were permitted without hesitation, the two guards at the doors cowering subtlely as if terrified of them. This amused Falx visibly, and she brushed against one on purpose, revelling in the smell of their fear.
Lacertus swept in finally, nodding to the guards curtly, his curls bouncing on his brow delicately, before the doors closed behind them with a sharp click that seemed deafening in the silent entrance foyer, save for the tick-tock of the grand clock by the stairs.
Once inside, they split into single file, Lacertus dropping back even further for Gladius to take up his rightful position behind Falx as she glided gracefully to the entrance to the lower levels. There were three guards near this door, who carefully veiled their emotions, pushing them down artfully so that the lycanthropic agents were not aware.
Little did they know, her senses were so acute – like her two companions no doubt – that Falx was more than attentive to their hesitation when they were close by. They entered the spiralling staircase, their boots echoing resonantly around the stone walls, and carrying up and down equally as they descended. Their pace matched exactly, each striding precisely with the one in front or – respectively – behind.
When they reached the bottom of the steps, their footfalls silent and stealthy once again, they strode down a long corridor, passing the odd guard, armed with a powerful gun, and completely ignored them each in turn. Lacertus would often acknowledge them simply by gaze, but nothing more.
The door at the end of the hallway was thick and reinforced from both sides, guarded and watched all hours of the day. From the exterior appearance, one would never have expected what lay beyond it.
Falx gave a light knock on it twice with her right knuckles, and then pushed it open. The door gave a heavy creak, and a clang, granting them entrance. They stepped in, in turn, and Falx took up a central position, with Gladius on her right, and Lacertus on her left. In unison, they bowed their heads; eyes closed, and hovered like that for a silent moment.
"Welcome back," came a steadfast voice from the other side of the room, and the three raised their heads as the man added, "and I notice there are only three of you. Not exactly what we planned is it?"
Though Falx was the clear leader, she was not big on speech, and so glanced to Gladius. The bigger of the two males raised his head slightly higher, and – like the other two – knotted his hands in front of him as he said, "We ran into a few problems, sir."
"And what were these problems, hmm?" That was when Sebastian Woods turned from his data board, pristine and presentable in a crisp white shirt and formal black tie, the braces keeping his immaculate black pants up around his waist, silver tie clip maintaining the position of the item. He held a mug in his hand, clearly quite empty by the way he gestured with it upon continuation, "Why don't you tell me about some of these problems, soldier?"
Gladius did not flinch under the reprimanding tone of the superior man, and explained, "We tracked the target to Scotland, where they rendezvoused with an unplanned group of individuals, who proceeded to confuse the fine details of the plan, sir."
"Don't make it all fancy, soldier," Woods grumbled, sipping at his beverage and rejecting it when he realised it was cold and – to him – useless. "Just lay it out straight."
"Well, sir… three other lycanthropes got in the way." Gladius did not sway in his gaze or posture as he relayed the information, knowing very well that it would only prove to aggravate the superior man further.
Woods' grey eyes lifted from the mug he had set down, and he raised them to take in the forms of his three elite… one word for them might be assassins… another would be – as Woods liked to call them – soldiers. But in truth, they were subjects; mindless drones who lived only to serve and complete their master's objectives.
And to Woods, that had meant collecting Agent Tom Sawyer for integration. And the three had failed. It was not something he was used to, nor something he liked in the least.
"Do you know how much, time, money and effort is going into this programme?" he asked of them, knowing they would not answer if the response was not obvious. They had been 'trained' that way. "Do you know how valuable to the survival of our fine country this is? And you come to me with nothing… nothing to show for our efforts!"
Falx, Gladius and Lacertus did not move, simply let Woods hurl verbal abuse at them for as long as he deemed appropriate. They were not exactly used to this kind of behaviour from the man – except perhaps for Gladius, who had been in Woods' employ long before his 'recruitment' – but did not hesitate to let it play out nonetheless.
"I will not tolerate another failure from what is supposed to be the strongest, fastest and best team this country has to offer. Too much work has gone into this to let it be destroyed by the three of you…" Woods paused here, eyes darkening dangerously and mysteriously as he added, "Now… I want that Agent… without any more excuses."
With a wave of his hand, he dismissed them. They filed out to the right, Falx in the lead once again, with the younger Lacertus bringing up the rear again. They had been permitted a short rest, they knew, and they were planning to take it. Lacertus would relish the time to heal properly, instead of trying to rush it along on the boat as he had been since the wounding.
It would give him time to contemplate the contrasting feelings and urges within himself… feelings and urges that he could not understand.
Though they were nearing America – and with a certain level of haste – everyone was rather wary and hesitant, especially after what information had been shared had come into startling focus and clarity, revealed by Anise Delacroix… her imagination could possibly have been running away with her… either that or she was hitting the problem right on the nose.
It was this revelation that frightened – if only where no one could see it – Rodney Skinner, when he was shut away in his cabin. For a long time, he stared at the bottle of scotch; feeling its lure but not giving in. He wanted his wits about him. To be honest, he did not truly trust Anise… again. Something inside of him burned away, insisting that perhaps she had known about this whole scheme the entire time, and she was simply playing dumb.
Her thoughts were that these three werewolves – whose names she did not know, conveniently enough – were working for an American government branch. Her impression was that they were trying to find Sawyer, and take him back to America for some reason that she could not understand – nor could Lei or Dmitri, who seemed to agree with her – or think about rationally. Whatever it was, Skinner wasn't entirely sure why Sawyer had demanded and pleaded to go to America… perhaps to try and oust out this problem and its origins… get to the heart of the problem as it were.
Impulsive is one way to put it… determined… or just plain crazy would do. Skinner groaned, and slumped back on his bed. This could only lead to trouble… werewolf-induced trouble. And werewolves were something Skinner had grown to hate… loathe even. They scared him, and he didn't completely understand them.
But the problem was, he now had one for a good friend, and didn't know what to do about that.
A/N2: Sucky chapter, I know… you can try and argue, but… meh… I only liked the first part. Okay, actually, I don't hate it that much, so I'm just going to shut up now, and reassure you that the League will reach USA next chapter ^_~