Thanks to a few days off work for Easter and a minor concussion from a meeting between my head and a wall, you're getting chapter 4 a little earlier than usual. I'm conscious that these first few chapters show me very much finding my way with this story. Don't worry, I have things planned and the action will be hotting up very soon. And look at the earlier chapters of No Man's Land - they were horrible! This chapter is rather Lara-light, but due to the different time zonesmy characters are in(I have got to kick that habit, it's very confusing) she's actually asleep for most of this! She'll be back with a vengeance in the next chapter though, never fear. Fishman's an original character so, no, you're not supposed to recognise him.

SilverDragon, Linzi and Godavari - You get an amalgamated reply this week since you all said much the same thing. Thankyou, first of all, for reviewing and enjoying. That Dagger of Xian bit - I just couldn't resist! And the Ritual and Kurtis' visions will be explained soon. Not yet, though. All will slowly become clear. :-)

Unguarded Misery

"…I'll just always think of him as MacGyver, that's the – "

Lara was cut off in mid-sentence as Bryce's eyes flicked away from hers to over her shoulder and he nodded his head in gesture. She turned, blindly setting her drink back down on the hotel bar.

Approaching them, winding his way through the evening crowd, was Gareth Fishman. He reached their small party of three where they were perched circled next to the bar and stood, smiling amiably. "Can I buy you people a drink?"

"Um…I think we'd probably need more than one drink for the three of us," Bryce said, attempting to show a distinct lack of welcome.

"Hello, Gareth," said Lara.

"Hi, Lara," he returned, smiling and tapping his fingers on his other hand nervously where they were held at his front.

"Here on business?"

"Yeah. My assistant's upstairs, working."

"Still got James working for you?"

"No, no, I have Maria now. James decided tomb raiding wasn't really his business – bit of a problem with the Ark of the Covenant. Almost…got him killed," Fishman said, laughing nervously.

"So you got the Styx article as well, then?"

"Yeah, yeah. I hear there's a nice helmet of invisibility in the underworld."

"Mmmm," Lara said into her drink noncommittally.

"Would you like a drink?" Hillary asked politely, in a better position to call over the bartender from his seat right by the bar than Fishman, standing at the edge of the group.

"Uh – bourbon chaser, please."

Bryce reached behind him and pulled over another bar stool, lifting it slightly as he dragged it and then letting it drop back again in a manner that suggested the invitation wasn't actually open. Fishman sat down anyway and accepted the drink off Hillary.

"So when did you arrive?" Lara asked him.

"Yesterday," Fishman replied, nodding. "We're just…taking our time, sorting out the practicalities…I suppose we're going to have to hurry up now you're here though!" He laughed again, obviously more than uncomfortable with the aloof manner in which he was being treated.

"I suppose so." Lara held up her glass to Fishman. "May the best raider win."

"May he," Fishman agreed, chinking his glass against Lara's. He downed the chaser in one and flashed his company a self-conscious smile.

Vincent Harding stood and patiently waited as Kurtis began to wake up.

The prisoner was forcibly standing towards one corner of the nightclub storage room with his hands cuffed and the chain looped over a meat hook set into the ceiling, black with age, a relic from the nightclub's previous incarnation as a meat warehouse.

Kurtis muttered incoherently and then raised his head, eyes blinking and lungs inhaling as he suddenly reached consciousness.

Harding regarded him curiously.

"Who is Lara?"

Kurtis didn't answer, only swallowing and shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot after hours of standing as he stared back at Harding, a flicker of derision in his eyes.

"You were talking in your sleep," Harding explained, trying to prompt an answer through cooperation. "You called for Lara. You asked her why she didn't…open the door?"

Kurtis paused and then decided to grant an answer. "A friend."

"I take it from your tone of voice that you're not too happy with her? For…not opening the door?"

"Smart-ass doesn't suit you, Harding," Kurtis sneered.

Harding gave a little laugh of disbelief, a show of offence. "I'm just curious!"

"Lady Lara Croft, if you must know." Kurtis was still scornful.

"You know Lady Lara Croft? The Lady Lara Croft? Renowned archaeologist? Wanted for murder last year? That Lady Lara Croft?"

"Yes."

"Well – I am impressed." Harding began to pace slightly, digesting the surprise. Then, he stopped mid-step, something apparently occurring to him. He looked up to Kurtis, careful suspicion on his face. "Have you spoken to her lately?"

Kurtis blinked rapidly, his head dropping, his expression openly sorrowful. "I haven't seen her."

A smile quirked at the edge of Vincent's mouth and, hands behind his back, he looked away in thought. Absently he said, "Do excuse me," and then he turned and hurried out.

Kurtis stood in the empty room, silent and abandoned. "Please come back, Lara."

Kurtis had been alone for some time now. The electric light was becoming harsher as the sunlight poking through the window faded at sunset and he was desperate to sit down.

His feet and legs ached from standing. It had probably been no longer than a shop assistant or a hair stylist had to stand, he chastised himself, but he wasn't used to it and he'd been through hell and he just wanted to die and if he could only take the weight off his feet then he might feel better and it was all so hard and he didn't care whether it was manly or not but he just wanted to cry. He'd tried bending his knees and taking all his weight with his arms, but they were aching too and his wrists were hurting from hanging their weight off the cuffs and when he was hanging by his arms it was difficult to breathe and damn it, why couldn't it just be over? He let out a few sobs, trying to coerce himself into crying but for some reason the tears just wouldn't come even though he desperately, desperately just wanted to give in and feel thoroughly sorry for himself.

Why didn't they believe him? Why couldn't they see that he'd have broken already if it were possible. He was a tough guy, tougher than most, but torture was turning out to be a whole other deal. It wasn't just the pain, it was the misery and the loneliness and the feeling of victimisation and why wasn't Lara here to save him and god damn it, it had only been two days and why wasn't he tougher than this!

He started as a far-away beat took up, fast and deep. It was music – the nightclub had opened up for the evening. That could make his fortunes go either way – they could lock him in his cell away from the revellers, or they could take advantage of the noise to cover his screams. So far all they'd done to him were things that made him cry out or moan but with the assurance that no-one could hear anything…he swallowed, desperately trying not to think of the things they could do to him that could make him protest so much louder.

A few minutes passed and the tribal beat of the music began to calm him somewhat. He sniffed, slowly regaining control of himself and took a long, shuddering breath.

Harding returned, looking agitated. A flicker of hope flared in Kurtis as he realised that Harding was alone – so far he'd always had someone else do the beating whilst he just stood at a safe distance and did the repeated questioning. God forbid he should get those expensive clothes dirty.

Vincent strode over, a sudden anger flashing in his eyes, and he came and stood too close to Trent, face pushed in his, an errant strand of hair fallen into his eyes completely ignored.

"Enough. Can you or can you not tell me anything about the Ritual of Anubis?" he spat.

"I told you – " Kurtis began, but Harding spun away, punching a hand into his other open palm and snarling in anger.

"You know!" he shouted, turning back and throwing out an arm in an accusatory point, "You may not remember it but somewhere in that mind of yours, you know. The writings say that the Ritual of Anubis is taught when an initiate is fourteen, you said you left at eighteen, you've done this!"

"I don't remember! Not a thing!" Kurtis yelled back, finding a sudden strength enough to defend himself.

"Why not!"

"Maybe I don't want to!"

A sudden silence descended on the room, both parties frozen, their angered breathing the only sign of their life, both somewhat shocked at Kurtis' words.

"What do you mean?" Harding asked, his voice quiet.

"I hated the Lux Veritatis. I hated my father. I hated what they did to me, what they put me through, I hated that I wasn't good enough. I barely remember half the lessons they taught me. My chirugai, the telekinesis – it's a part of me, it's in my body now but the stuff in my head…I didn't want it there."

"So it's repressed," Harding said, understanding. "It's in there somewhere, we just have to find it."

"Just let me go," Kurtis pleaded, tired of being pushed for information he did not have.

"I'm sorry, Trent," Harding said coldly, "but I don't have time. I'll make you remember because we don't have any other choice."

Kurtis' voice croaked, his words slow and faltering. "I don't…know…what you're…talking about."

Vincent Harding stood and regarded his prisoner for a moment. Kurtis' head jerked forwards as he coughed, eyes squeezing shut slightly to demonstrate his exhaustion. An old table was his bed, Trent lying on it with his feet tied to hooks screwed into the wood and his hands cuffed either side of his head, also secured to hooks. It was amazing what thrift and a vague knowledge of DIY could achieve, he mused in a rare moment of calm amidst the race against time.

"I believe you, Mr Trent," he said then, looking down at Kurtis almost sorrowfully. "I really do. But unfortunately it just isn't good enough."

Kurtis cried out as Harding tipped the bottle of whiskey that he held aloft and the spirit splashed down on the deep cut across his chest, stinging intensely.

"I hate to do this to you, Kurtis. Gratuitous violence was never my thing. Neither was wasting good alcohol. But, I'm pretty sure that once your body has had enough your mind will give in, and then it will all be over."

"It doesn't work like that," Kurtis whispered, head lolling to one side and eyes sliding shut. "Just give up. You've obviously done your research to know this much about the Lux Veritatis, why don't you just research the ritual yourself?"

"You know as well as I do that the details – the all important details – of these kinds of things only exist in the minds of the initiated and you, my friend, are the last of your kind. Not to mention that only the mind of a Lux Veritatis is capable of successfully completing the ritual."

"My mind…" Kurtis whispered, a pained smile appearing on his lips, "…not so well trained." He snarled as more whiskey fell onto his wound.

"You know, alcohol burns really quite well. And that cut does look like it could do with cauterising."

"No. It's fine, really."

"Now, now, Doctor's orders. Well, not quite." Vincent took a swig of the whiskey as he turned away and started to rummage through the shelves holding the nightclub sundries. "I never finished med school. My parents sent me, wanted me to be an upstanding citizen worthy of my class status, something they could show off about to their lawyer friends. I wasn't so into it, myself. Had a lot of great parties, though, hung out with a lot of rich girls. Eventually I just decided that with my money I could do that without needing college assignments as an excuse so I left. Parents weren't too happy, but they're hoping I'll grow out of my rebel stage and go back to graduate." He finished his story as he found what he was looking for and returned to the table.

Opening the box, he removed a match and struck it alight. "This is gonna hurt me more than it's going to hurt you," he said falsely, and then he let it drop.

Kurtis could barely walk as they dragged him back to the cellar. He stumbled and tripped as the guards, supporting the majority of his weight, hurried him back through the club. His ordeal had finished some time before but they had left him tied in the storage room to begin his recovery whilst they waited for closing time. Now the club was empty they were returning him to his lock up where he could be safely left without supervision.

The door to his cell clanged open and they pushed him in, Kurtis falling to his knees and burying his head in his lap. The main door to the cellar was slammed shut and the key turned and immediately Lara was stood before him once again, impassive to his suffering.

"Who are you?"

"What do you mean?" he begged, pleading with his eyes and imploring with his hands. "What do you want from me?" He was dirty, unkempt, cut, bruised and desperate for respite.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I don't know what you mean!" he cried, but she did not react to his distress, only regarding him patiently, and in desperation he broke down into tears, his body sagging where he knelt on the floor. "Please!" he sobbed, looking up and reaching out to her, "Lara, please…", but she was gone and Kurtis was alone once more.

"Please," he sobbed to the darkness, falling forwards and dropping his head to the dirt caked floor as his hands clawed at the unforgiving stone, "please…"

Oh, poor Kurtis. :-( Don't worry, I'm going to keep the violence subtle, I dislike writing it even more than I do reading it! Anybody recognise that last scene from anywhere...?