Foolish

Hostage situations were always right up a sniper's alley. Domestic hostage situations were a tougher sell. Usually SWAT handled them. Usually, local police would be fine. But not when the hostage-taker was wearing the uniform of a Crimson Guardsman, spouting rhetoric about a new world order that was coming down. Ricochet was settled in scope, set up in the living room of some poor unforunate who just happened to have a studio apartment across the street from the governor's office.

She watched patiently as the scarlet edge of the uniform flirted with the window edge. She needed a clean shot, but Siegies were well trained. He knew to stay clear of egresses like this one. Four stories down below, Beachhead was waiting for delivery of the building's blue prints. He wasn't inclined to negotiate, nor had the Siegie issued any kinds of demands.

Occasionally, Ricochet would traverse the scope across the front of the building. Through other windows, she could see men and women down on their knees, hands folded over their heads, faces pressed into carpet. On her second pass, she noticed one of the aides looking fearfully in a different direction than where her target was presumed to be standing. She was talking, agitated.

"He's not alone." Ricochet reported quietly.

"Any idea how many?"

"Negative. Building is concrete on a sunny day. Completely borks all IR." She hadn't even bothered turning on that function on her scope. Bathsheba II was a rather handsome upgrade to the Remington she'd lost in Cambodia. The smaller .300 Magnum round meant that she would be less likely to obliterate the Siegies head completely when she took her shot.

"Until we know how many hostiles we're dealing with, you hold your shot, hear me?"

"Yes, sir." She traversed again, scowling to herself. She didn't want to be patient anymore. The conversation with Chuckles repeatedly played on a loop in her head. Sometimes, she imagined what he was going to say before she cut him off. She never liked it.

Another ten, or twenty minutes passed in silence. She tried not to stew in her thoughts. She forced herself through all her focusing exercises. She counted the details on the windows. She counted the hostages she could see. She ran through fire scenarios and extraction solutions. She did everything she was supposed to do.

"Rico. We need you downstairs." Beachhead's voice in her ear sounded tired. But she wasn't going to ignore an order. Voicing an affirmative, she began to pack up her stuff, and carefully moved furniture back into it's original locations. She felt that the renter shouldn't be able to tell she'd even been there. Capping Bathsheba's scope, Ricochet carefully tucked the rifle, muzzle down, under her arm, and headed down the stairs.

Beachhead met her in the lobby. They'd set up a small command base to work in concert with local law enforcement. The police were providing security.

Dial-Tone flashed her a grin, which she returned, the cordial happy mask dropping into place without effort. Dial-Tone's greeting was strained though, and he expressed his disagreement.

"This blows, Beachhead. I don't agree with this at all." Turning away from his comms array, Dial-Tone crossed his arms and shook his head.

"What blows?" Ricochet had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"I got overridden on this one." Beachhead's consternation was only visible in the lines around his eyes. "About an hour ago, we received terms of surrender. They're willing to trade all fifteen hostages inside, for one person. You."

"There is no world that this ends well in," Dial-Tone interrupted. "We don't give our own over to COBRA."

"We don't get a choice in this one," Beachhead was capable of a certain tone, one that brooked no argument. Dial-Tone scowled being subject to it. "The Jugglers made the call here. You know as well as I do, what sour grapes this is."

Ricochet didn't even question it. She set Bathsheba down, leaning the rifle against Dial-Tone's desk. "I'll be back for her, promise." The rest of her weapons followed, the sidearm and holster, the K-bar strapped to her thigh. She started to pull the radio receiver from her ear, but Beachhead stopped her.

"Keep that for as long as you can. It's got a tracking chip in it. And be careful. Who knows what they've got planned, and we don't know what you're walking into."

Ricochet chuckled. "I'm walking into the governor's office to save fifteen lives. The rest we'll make up as we go. Just... don't abandon me, okay?"

Beachhead clasped her forearm, squeezing tight. "We don't abandon our own. We'll get you out, one way or another."

"You better believe I'm gonna hold you to that." Ricochet returned the gesture. "You got a line inside, right, Dial-Tone? Give 'em a call, let them know I'm coming in."

Turning back to the comms array, Dial-Tone began to do just that. Ricochet headed out into the sunlight, and kept her head high. Crossing the street was the easy part. Heading up the stairs to the state building was harder. As she pulled the doors open, she raised her hands above her head, and called out into the lobby.

Two Siegies met her, and once she was cleared of weapons, she was marched through to the governor's office. On the way, she counted the fifteen hostages being released, all running towards the front doors and freedom. That was a good sign. At least their word was being kept. At the governor's office, the heavy oak doors were pulled apart and she was led inside. The guards remained, a silent audience to the whim of the outlandishly dressed maniac in the chair.

"Kirsten Allison Ludlum." Dr. Mindbender intoned her name like a spell. "I don't hate it, but the name your mother and I chose for you was much, much prettier. Katherine Evelyn Bendis."

Ricochet felt sick to her stomach, but she swallowed the lump of disgust and shook her head. "I told you before, I really think you should just fuck off."

"Is that any way to speak to your long-lost papa? Oh, I think not. I guess we'll have to work a little attitude adjustment after all. Guards, if you would?"

Ricochet began to turn, to track the movement of the two Crimson Guardsmen behind her, but one of them clocked her hard in the temple with a rifle butt, and she crumpled like a ragdoll.