1: Ash

"People who fight fire with fire usually end up with ashes."

-Abigail Van Buren

Mdina was the first time he's given command of an operation.

He's accompanied other operatives, generally younger than him, with the occasional senior who'd look at him with pitying eyes, lips twisted as if to stop themselves from saying what Ash already said to himself every damn night. "You're too late in the game, Ash. You'll only ever be a second, never a first. A desk job is more your cup of tea. They're never going to think you're as good as John."

But he was. He could be. He just needed a chance to prove himself, a place where he would be the one that looked like the hero. The one who did something dangerous and death-defying, to save one of his own, got a tongue lashing for it from the heads, but they all knew it wasn't meant to be taken seriously. It would be him this time, not John. John had enough of his golden boy moments as it was.

Eleven, eleven, eleven. Those were the numbers of the night. November 11th, at 11 PM. Caxero, a minor enough criminal that no one would start demanding serious blood for him, would be killed tonight. By either John Rider's hands, warm and calloused but covered in blood, or by his apprentice's. Yassen Gregorovich.

An interesting kid (because he was a kid, ten years younger than Ash though he didn't act like it). He'd already racked up quite an impressive kill count, and from John's own reports of him (sounding way too much like a damn proud father for it to be any coincidence what he thought of his teenage apprentice's disturbing skill set), a crack shot with guns. Deadly with other things too. Gun or not, Yassen was not someone to be messed with.

There was only one good photo of Yassen, and it was from months ago, slightly blurry and taken from a security camera, so his features were pixelations rather than the real thing. Hardly ideal if they wanted to be as accurate enough as possible in their description, but it would have to do. The base features would remain almost the same anyway, and John had specifically let them know he'd be wearing something blue. A sign to tell that it was them.

The whole thing was a setup anyway, designed by MI6 to get John out of SCORPIA. He'd be taken hostage, and Yassen would escape. Relay the information back to SCORPIA. It was the only safe way to get John out without SCORPIA getting suspicious, and while they might dismiss it as a loss, SCORPIA wasn't in the habit of making negotiations, even for their own operatives, no matter how skilled they were. It would be a loss for them, yes, but they'd still have kept Yassen, and that was better than nothing.

Ash rubs some of the feeling back into his fingers as the rest of the men shift. His men. A team of nine, with more posted from above with night vision goggles and gloves. All of them wearing body armor, concealed but restrictive and itchy. He feels the sweat pooling up underneath the material, feels the moisture collecting on his skin. They had no choice but to wear it; they were using real ammunition for this, even though it was John they were collecting. John had warned them about that too, said that Yassen would be able to tell the difference, though Ash seriously doubts that. Sometimes, John has the tendency to over-exaggerate, especially when it comes to his young protege. His opinion had been vetoed by the heads, and so they carried guns with them.

They'd come in at 10:30 to get set-up. The night was a relatively warm one, with the moon and stars out, the square where Caxero would take his nightly coffee mostly deserted. This time of night, no tourists were outside, and for good reason, too. There was very light, save for the iron street lamps spaced at each corner. And though it felt quiet and still, living up to its name as the "Silent City", MI6 agents were posted in the town, out of sight, but there. Watching and waiting.

Meanwhile, Ash and his men were posted opposite St. Paul's Cathedral. Earlier this morning, Ash had posted two of his people there, one in each of the towers. They would be watching the action, making sure that everything went to plan. It's also a convenient way to make sure he keeps track of the time, glancing up every now and then to check the two clocks beneath the towers. One of them must have been five minutes slower or faster than the other; it's hard to tell, and cursedly enough, he had forgotten to bring his own watch with him.

It doesn't matter anyway. It's now 10:55, maybe another five minutes or so before John and Yassen would show up. He wouldn't expect them to be anything less than on time.

He scans the empty street again. The square is mostly deserted, but the moon casts bright light down onto the streets, reflecting them silver. He picks up the pair of binoculars, moving his gaze back towards Caxero, still sipping at his drink. Won't be too long now…

A flash of movement catches his eyes and suddenly, like a ghost appearing out of shadows, he sees Yassen. John flanks him. Both are dressed in a dark jacket, but while John has a blue cap on the top of his head, obscuring his eyes as he keeps his head tucked low, Yassen isn't wearing one. His fair hair shines in the moonlight, like some kind of horrible beacon of death.

Ash freezes, resisting the urge to just shoot, not at John, but at Yassen. There's something entirely off about him, the silent grace with which he moves at John's side. Like his shadow, but with the deadly lope of a panther hunting in the night. The predator and the hunter working together, in tandem.

It's this deadly combination that causes Caxero to never see them coming until Yassen is standing right in front of him. And by then, it's too late for him to do anything. Ash watches as the teen pulls something out of his jacket pocket. A gun. Silver metal catches the light once, Caxero's eyes widen, and then a loud bang. Even with a silencer, everything is so quiet that it's the only thing Ash can hear, ringing in his ears even after Yassen has already lowered the gun.

Watching him, Ash resists the urge to go over all the exits in the square. The point was to let him escape, after all, but still. It's an instinct, a gut-feeling more than anything else that makes him suddenly want as many reinforcements as he can get. The natural urge to trap a dangerous predator, even if said-predator was John's own.

The pair begin to walk away. The night air is still and quiet, and the square bleeds more than just silver light now. He lets himself exhale, gesturing at the men to get ready. So far so good. Now for the next part of the plan.

Ash forces himself to move, gun already raised towards the pair, who are now vulnerable and open right in the middle of the square. He has a clear shot to hit John in the chest, but he doesn't take it. Likely, he has body armor on underneath the jacket. Even so, Ash really only needs to fire close enough to make it seem like they're aiming for him.

And then as if in slow motion, Yassen's head snaps towards him. Ash has seen his picture before, and he knows that his eyes are supposed to be blue, but right now, they look grey and dark and cold as if he's staring down the barrel of a gun. And he is, a moment later, when he sees Yassen pull out his gun, a smooth, effortless motion. His finger inches down on the trigger. Ash is too frozen to move.

Two shots, but nothing, until Yassen squeezes the trigger a third time, and this time something slams into him. Hard. He's thrown off his feet, onto the pavement. A sharp pain shoots through his shoulder but a hand to his chest reveals that no, he isn't bleeding. Possibly bruised ribs, sure, and those would hurt like a bitch the next day, but an actual bullet would have been worse.

He lets himself lie there as the firing begins. A glance up shows John and Yassen separated as men swarm into the square from all sides. John heads towards the side, shooting at two men, but a third soon comes up behind him. A shout. John slowly raises his hands in the air. Places his weapon on the ground, steps away and then the men rush forward and he's being thrown to the ground and handcuffed. It's a good cover, as far as covers go. To the untrained eye, it really does look like John has surrendered.

Yassen, meanwhile, had gotten luckier. Not luckier, no, because it was all meant for him to get away, but even Ash has to grudgingly agree that setup or not, the Russian kid was still good enough to escape on his own. Ash braces an elbow against the cobblestones, ready to push himself up and check that John was doing alright, but then...

Then everything goes wrong.

Yassen turns around. He's halfway out of the square. If he breaks into a dead sprint now, he'd make it, letting the darkness engulf him and making it near to impossible to find him again. But no, he's stopped in his tracks. Ash sees his eyes narrow, and then the gun is being raised again. He fires at the three approaching men, a neat shot straight between the eyes for one, one in the side of the neck as he turns for backup, and one in the throat.

Shit. That was three of their men, all in one go. And with Ash down, there were only three left to guard John. After the show he's seen with Yassen using that gun like a mere extension of his hand, he's sure that three men are nothing.

No, that's also not right. Maybe Ash has hit his head because his vision shifts into focus again and that's when he remembers. Travis. Travis was left.

At the far end of the square, one of the youngest of the men stands, barely older than Yassen himself possibly. He's frozen like an animal in the headlights of a barrelling semi. Backed up against a wall, even if he wants to desert, there's nowhere to go. He raises the gun, unsure about it like he's wondering if he should take the shot. Ash wants to scream at him to just fire already, but Yassen isn't frozen like he is, so he gets there first.

A shot in the legs to immobilize him. Travis falls with a yell. He sees John turn towards the action, but Ash isn't close enough to see his reaction and he doesn't care too much about it right now either. Yassen pauses. Checks the bullets in his gun, like a cocky bastard, like he knows no one else will dare stop him now.

And then he fires again, and Travis's head, which he's already struggling to lift up like a just-birthed colt, hand reaching for his fallen gun, finally flops down onto the pavement.

Yassen doesn't turn back as he leaves, disappearing down on the darker streets. The square is silent once again, but Ash can still hear the ringing of the gunshots, Yassen's cold gaze, the night air, warm and heavy, forcing the stench of blood down his throat.

He can't stand to look at Travis. He struggles to his feet, knowing he's fucked up this, knows that he's failed the very first mission he's ever been in command of. He pulls off the body armor; it would only slow him down anyway. Doesn't glance at John once as he sets off.

Someone calls his name as he breaks into a dead sprint; he's sure it's John himself, but he's not listening. The only thing he can think of is catching up with Yassen and putting a bullet in the bastard's head. Four men dead, and all because of one Russian street urchin. Kid wasn't even twenty and had probably killed more people than Ash has.

He gets to the Northern Wall. Sees the gate in front of him. Yassen must have gone towards that. Somewhere outside, SCORPIA would send for him. A car, maybe. One driver, or two people, but he's sure he can take them out, he's good with the gun he has...

He turns a corner, sees a flash of dusty pink and a desolate balcony out of the corners of his eyes. And then someone is stepping out in front of him. Ash nearly smashes into them, but the person side steps easily, smoothly. A blur of movement, and then pressure that makes his fingers open in shock. He lets out a yell and the gun drops. A foot kicks it away into the darkness.

Gone and useless. Just like the rest of his men.

Cold metal presses into his neck. Out of the corner of his eyes, blue eyes regard him as dispassionately as a piece of upholstery.

"Who are you?" There's barely a trace of accent to his words. John has taught him well.

"MI6."

"How did you know I would be here?"

Ash doesn't respond. The whole point was to let Yassen getaway, but somehow, he'd failed that too. He'd only meant to shoot the kid in the head, but now the tables were turned on him. The gun jabs harder into the skin of his neck, right over his pulse, and he resists the urge to flinch.

"You should have stayed home," Yassen says. Ash braces himself for the shot that would come next. A shot to the throat meant a fair bit of pain, and there would be blood. A lot of it. It was still a better alternative than having just let the kid getaway.

But then Yassen turns and runs. Ash can only stare as he disappears through another alleyway (apparently the gate was too obvious). He's gone as silently and quietly as he'd managed to come in.

Yassen hadn't shot him. Why? Old sentimentality towards his mentor? Not worth the effort and bullets? Mercy? He snorts. That was laughable. Yassen Gregorovich was not a man with mercy. Ash can only go through the possibilities, each more confusing than the last. It was likely that he would never find out why he hadn't been shot, but he supposes he should be grateful for it, nonetheless.

Yassen is long gone by the time that Ash finally realizes there's a knife sticking out of his stomach.

It's deep enough that the only visible part is the hilt. Blood spreads across the front of his white undershirt, the thin cotton fabric sticky with it even as he finds it harder to breathe. There is no pain. He must be in shock.

That won't last long.

"Ash!"

He turns or tries to. Instead, he stumbles, falling onto the pavement. The dull pain is nothing compared to the sudden stabbing waves of agony shooting up his abdomen.

But even that is cooling quickly, replaced by a dull chill, like ice creeping up his veins. He's never felt so cold before. The night is supposed to be warm, but he's shivering, wishing he had something to cover against the chill.

"Ash!" It's John, his savior, coming to save him, putting his own life at risk for it, as he always seemed to do. If Yassen had been around, he would have realized what was going on. That it had all been a set-up. "Stay still, we need to put some pressure on it…"

Ash tries to say something. Nothing comes out except warm liquid. His own blood. John presses a hand over the wound, putting pressure on it. His own awareness is fading alarmingly fast. He feels the world begin to slip away, getting colder and colder. As he feels himself get dragged further and further down into unconsciousness, John's face swimming in and out of focus, his last thoughts are, At least John gets to be the hero again.