This is the second chapter in my Helena X Bayman fanfic. Thanks for the reviews on chapter 1; they were greatly appreciated. Hopefully this chapter doesn't fall short of the first.


Chapter 2: Russian Savior

The scuba-equipped mercenary found the attacked woman sinking towards the ocean floor. He swam quickly to her, his large black flippers kicking the water rapidly as he wrapped his arms around her thin waist and swam to the surface. He surveyed the rocky ocean side cliff, spotting a hidden alcove cavern several meters away. He swam swiftly, hanging the unconscious woman onto his back, swimming against the current to the cave. Hopefully this all wouldn't come to waste.

Soon, he climbed into the cave, laying the woman onto her back, her entire body drenched by salty seawater. The mercenary, Bayman, removed his breathing apparatus and air tanks, exposing his dark eyes and slick-backed, brown hair. He looked into Helena's pale lips; they were motionless. Bayman immediately began to perform CPR, pressing down on her chest, holding her nose up and breathing into her lungs.

He was silent as he worked, focused, his brow covered in sweat. After placing his lips against hers one final time, he tasted salt water come into his mouth. He pulled away, watching the opera singer cough the rest out, lying back down to take a few desperate gasps for air. Helena's eyes stared into his, weakly, half-opened. She was too weak to move, but soon her arm felt numb, shocked by a paralyzing pain.

Bayman saw the wound on her arm, circled with a strange, black bruise. His eyes widened, recognizing the infection caused by the assassin's poison. He soon pulled the eight-inch combat knife he always carried with him from his diving suit. Helena's countenance disfigured into one of dread as the man grabbed her infected arm tightly, his steel blade reflecting the dim moonlight that entered the cave. Despite the paralyzing pain, she still struggled, but the Russian's grasp was too strong.

Her eyes filled with tears as the knife dug into her arm, blood trickling down to her wrist. Luckily for the two of them, the salt water had helped slow the poison's spreading; however, Bayman knew that he didn't have much time before the poison would travel to her heart, so he lifted her up and planted his lips onto the wounded shoulder.

By this time, Helena almost passed, too weak to protest as Bayman sucked the poison from her arm. He spat to the side, his lips covered in the crimson fluid as he extracted the venom from her system. He worked quickly, checking the circle around the wound. Helena's lids began to flutter as she moaned weakly. Bayman couldn't tell if she was in pain or feeling some other sensation, but he continued to remove the poison. Eventually the circle's blackness had dissolved; hopefully, she would be alright.

Helena felt the paralyzing pain disappear and reached up to stroke the face of the man, her eyes now calm and serene. Bayman felt the softness of her palm and held it warmly against his cheek; it'd been so long since a woman had caressed him, but there were more important things at hand. Bayman quickly put her hand down, watching her pass out into the black abyss of unconsciousness.

The Russian mercenary then stood up, replacing his knife to its rightful place and then grabbing a small GPS device, entering his coordinates. In a matter of minutes, a computer-controlled boat pulled up to the front of the alcove. Bayman grabbed Helena and, instead of brutishly hanging her over his shoulder, cradled her in his arms like an infant, entering the boat, laying the unconscious woman on the back seat. He laid her on the back seat and drove off into the night to his hideout.

Helena, adorned in a beautiful, flowing white gown, gracefully walked down the red-carpeted stairs to the opera house's front stage. After years of vocal training, she was ready for her own first solo performance. As she sang, her voice echoing harmoniously to the delight of the audience, her proud, loving mother watched from the sidelines. Helena was reaching the finale of performance when her mother noticed a small red dot travel up the whiteness of her gown. She shoved her beloved daughter out of the way, feeling two bullets pierce her heart, falling to the cold, marble floor. Immediately, screams erupted from the audience, a hidden assassin atop a nearby balcony fled, abandoning their weapon. Helena, holding her dying mother in her arms, her heart immediately shocked with sorrow, tragically screamed . . .

. . . and sat up in the bed where she had been placed, crying, living the nightmarish night once again. She cried deeply into the sheets, wishing the bullets would have hit her instead, saving her all of this pain. She sat up in the uncomfortable army cot, the white sheets wrapped around her, holding her head in pain. After a few minutes of crying, Helena laid back in the bed, wondering where she was. Still wearing the semi-damp outfit from the night before, her arm covered in bandages, she began to remember, the thick, chiseled jaw and strong face of the man who saved her. Helena sat up, walking to the steel door across the room, her barefeet freezing against the concrete floor.

She opened the door up and walked out into the foyer. It was empty and dim with barren walls, except for one thing: a solitary photo pinned to a black and red dart board. The photo, which was of an intelligent-looking individual, had three darts piercing his forehead. Helena continued to walk slowly when suddenly she heard two loud, booted footsteps behind her. She gasped, turning around, seeing a large, slick-haired man staring at her.

In a thick Russian accent, her savior replied, "I see you're awake."