Summary: "Hello, Booker. It's nice to finally meet you.
Warnings: Description of torture, character death(s), and drowning. This chapter is heavily inspired by the events of The Old Guards: Force Multiplied, modified to fit the current movie-verse. So, if you read it, you know Booker is not in for a good time. Canon slash.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, but enjoy these wonderful characters
"It's nice to finally meet you."
Quynh's voice is softer than he expects. Not that he was expecting to ever hear it at all. It's delicate and sharp, like the fine edge of a good blade. She stares at him, waiting. The glass in her hand is placed carefully on the sink behind her. Against his better judgement, he lowers his gun.
"Quynh. How did you-? How are you here right now?" he asks.
Her smile is as sharp as her voice, and no less forgiving. "That...is a long story, Booker, and I'm much more interested in hearing your own."
The alcohol must be fading fast as that better judgement he wasn't listening to before makes itself louder in his head. He tenses as she rises to her feet again, the stories the others told giving no justice to the naturalness of her grace. She doesn't approach him.
"Not much to tell," he finally admits. He's certain as sin she'll know if he lies to her. "I was exiled."
Quynh bows her head solemnly.
"I know," she says, her tone so full of genuine sympathy he can't help but marvel at her kindness. There's no time to react before the bullet pierces his heart. At least I won't dream of her screaming anymore, he thinks as he dies.
Copley is sitting at his home desk, bemusedly admiring a crime scene photo obtained after the team's bust of a San Francisco-based human trafficking ring. Though the investigators on the case don't yet know it, never will, their victim, John Doe #2, was killed by an expertly placed sniper's bullet, aimed from the security tower near the edge of the pier. Estimating a rough distance from the photo's pixelation, Copley let out a sharp whistle.
"Nice shot, Nicky," he says aloud to an empty room and places the picture casually in the 'destroy' pile. "Hell of a shot."
It's been six months, three days, and approximately nine hours since he started this job. Each second an atonement for the lives almost lost to his selfishness. It's a drop in the bucket for his esteemed colleagues he knows, but he doesn't have the same time they do to waste it. He hasn't told them he's already begun vetting a replacement for when the inevitable happens.
He moves on to the next picture, a secondary shot of the crowd gathered behind the police tape. Standard image, nothing to implicate the team who were long gone by the time it was taken. Something about it still makes him pause. The crowd is small, consisting primarily of dock workers and reporters who heard the chatter over the police band. There's also the woman.
Mid 30s-40s. Average height. Slim. Korean. Her red coat may have cost a good portion of a week's salary. If Copley didn't know better, it would be easy to mistake her for just another reporter. But, unlike the rest, she has no crew with her, no notepad or device on hand for taking any kind of notes. Her gloved hands hold delicately onto the barrier in front of her as she stares directly into the camera.
Copley straightens in his seat. He knows that face. Looking up, his eyes automatically lock on the location where he's seen it so many times before, but there's nothing except books there now. He finished destroying the last of his research a week ago.
He reaches for his phone feeling something resembling dread and gives Joe a call.
Booker gasps back to life, his hands automatically flying to his chest. He let's the breathe back out slowly, unable to say he's not disappointed to still be alive. Un-surprised, maybe, but the disappointment is ever-present. He looks around, realizes he's handcuffed on a cot in what looks to be a crew bedroom aboard a yacht. He sits up to look out the port-hole above him and sees the shoreline of Le Havre in the distance. So, Quynh's managed to gather some help.
He swings his legs over the cot's edge and makes himself more comfortable. There's no point in wasting effort in an attempt to escape. Quynh knows what he is. She won't hesitate to stop him and clearly has no qualms when it comes to killing him. No, best to wait and let her tell him what she wants.
He wonders briefly if this is some sort of revenge for his betrayal of Andy. The consuming outrage of a wrathful sea goddess turned on the man who nearly murdered her beloved. He wouldn't blame her if it was. Almost even lets himself hope that's all this is. Otherwise, he'd be too terrified to even think if it's not. He's dreamt of her rage the same as Nile. He just had the good sense not to say anything about it.
It's near dark before the cabin door opens. Quynh enters, flanked on her right by a tall man carrying a heavy looking chain. She's changed for the occasion. A white silk blouse tucked into black high-waisted pants. The clothes cut a clean line along her figure. Not that Booker notices. There's just so little room with the three of them crammed in there together.
"Booker." She greets him.
"Quynh."
She smiles that same smile and motions to the man standing next to her. "My associate here will be securing you to bring you above deck. I ask you not to struggle. He's been given clear instruction to break your neck if you do."
Booker spares a glance at the man, quickly assessing him to be ex-military. Russian, maybe. Possibly Czech. Booker puts his odds at fifty-fifty to make good on Quynh's threat. Whether he makes those odds, or not, though, Quynh certainly will. He stands. Allows himself to be wrapped in chains before shuffling his way out of the room between her and her mercenary. He hears gulls scream as he steps up onto the deck. The lights of Le Havre gleam faintly in the distance, fighting against the flush of a reddening sunset. The yacht is anchored few miles out into the straight. No eyes to see them except those of the birds. Hiding in plain sight
It unsettles him how comfortable Quynh seems to be on the water. For all she's experienced, she glides effortlessly away from him to the ship's edge and leans casually against the balcony to enjoy the view. He shifts against the chains, testing their weight. He has a sinking feeling he knows what she intends to do with him. Knows he, of anyone, probably definitely deserves it. She turns back to him
"Where's Andromache?" She asks and he blinks at her.
"How should I know?"
She considers his answer; then, turns back around to keep staring out at the city's horizon. The passive expression he can see along the side of her face slips into something a little angrier. She repeats her question. "Where's Andromache?"
Booker looks over to her body guard and then back to her. He isn't sure what game it is she's trying to play. She knows he's in exile. Must know he hasn't heard or seen the others in the past six months. Knows even if they did check in on him, which he's certain they haven't, he would have been too drunk to really notice. She broke into his apartment after all for Christ's sake.
"I don't know." He tells her. She inhales deeply. It must be the signal, because her guard charges forward, throwing a punch that Booker ducks away from on instinct. He shuffles back away from the man, aware he's in a confined space with no means of escape. He's still not going to make it easy for him to accomplish whatever it is Quynh's planning. The chains around his arms and chest aren't helping, preventing the use of his hands while at the same time slowing down his movements with their cumbersome weight. A lucky kick knocks him to his ass, hard, against the synthetic panel decking. Before he can recover, his feet are tied with rope and he's being dragged to the ship's port side. Quynh stands silently above him.
"Where's Andromache?"
Book narrows his eyes at her and spits, "Va te faire enculer."
The salt water burns as he swallows it.
"That's impossible."
"I would have thought so, too." Copley agrees, considering the young woman slouched in the chair across from him. It's been six months since he's last seen her and the time seems to have done her plenty of good. Her hair is shorter now, a tapered cut that is both practical in her line of work but still retains a...youthful appearance. She still wears a bombers jacket, blue this time, over a white t-shirt, black jeans, and combat boots. The cosmetic changes are nothing, however, compared to the sureness in her stance as he opened his door for her. A confidence he'd only glimpsed at in the entrance of Merrick's laboratories.
"You're not hearing me." Her voice raises slightly as she tries to make her point. "It's impossible because I would have dreamed she was out."
Now that was new information. Copley raises his gaze to the other occupants in the room for conformation. Joe stands leaning against the bookcase behind Nile, arms wrapped tightly around his frame as if by doing so he could hold back the pain otherwise etched into his countenance. In the far corner, Nicky sits on the couch beside Andromache, a hand rested gently on her shoulder and arm. His entire focus devoted to holding her up lest she fall and shatter like glass. The eternal warrior stares out into the middle distance, seemingly insensate to the world around her. None of them seemed to have heard Nile, so he ventures aloud, "Is that true?"
Joe blinks, or maybe flinches, out of the spell first. "Yes. Maybe. You're certain it's her?"
The look he gives Copley might kill a lesser man. Five hundred years of guilt, sadness, and disappointment bares down in that singular expression, promising worse than a slow death if the former spy is lying to them. Even Nile feels it, subtly shifting her position so she can place herself squarely between the mortal and immortal should Joe's anguish get the better of him. Copley, for his part, absorbs the look with magnanimous grace. Grief is not solely an invention of immortals.
"It's her."
All eyes turn to Andy. She's back with them now, but it's a fragile thing. Nick's hands have dropped to his lap, not straying far in case they'll be needed. Tentatively, he asks, "Then, shouldn't we be looking for her?"
Andy swallows and shakes her head. "I'm not sure she wants to be found."
Nothing hurts quite like drowning Booker decides, as he wretches the last bit of seawater from his lungs. Even his dreams of Quynh couldn't adequately replicate the sensation. He's died more times than he cares to count below the waves. Each waking its own hell as his body spasms to inhale air, only to draw in fluid instead. The chains compress around him and he can't fight them, can't even struggle. It takes less than a minute each time to die. Then the whole process starts over again.
"You think this time it will kill you," Quynh speaks, as if reading his thoughts. She's crouched beside him, her hand wavering a centimetre above his head. Deciding if now is the moment to stroke his hair in comfort or pull it in admonishment. "But it doesn't. I honestly don't know when you'll die, but I know it won't be here. Not like this."
He coughs once more, curling in on himself as much as the chains will allow, and whispers. "Salope."
"Language, Booker."
It's Copley who eventually finds him. On a hunch, and at the behest of Nile, the resident spy fetches the back-up copies he made of all investigatory material into the "criminal" activities of the Old Guard. It's a name he came up with himself, or rather stole from his brothers across the pond. The name of the military detail assigned to protect the President. Something to classify his colleagues besides calling them colleagues, mercenaries, or simply The Team. Regardless of its source, the label seems to fit them. No one could argue they protect something far more precious.
He pours over the crime scene photos and discovers his gut is right. In the background of the crowd photos, almost out of focus, she's there. Tokyo. New York. Moscow. London. Chicago. Quynh has been following them for the better part of three months. Slowly drawing closer and closer to their handiwork. He takes a gamble and decides to reach out to a few, former contacts at the Company. Sets the old dogs on Quynh's trail and hopes she's unaware of how to blend in a world of photo surveillance and individual tracking. Also bets he can contain the situation before his contacts start to get suspicious. It would be hard to explain away a dead woman coming repeatedly back to life.
Like the hunch, his gamble pays off. He manages to track her to Paris and then Le Havre. By sheer luck, a friend (with access to a very good telescopic lens) determines she's aboard a luxury yacht; rented and anchored a mile or two from the harbor. He calls the Guard immediately when he sees his friend's photo. It's Joe who recommends it's time for a swim.
Quynh's interrogation of him relents eventually. Her men fish him out of the water and carry him back to the ship's hold. His chains are removed but for the ever-present handcuffs, which now cut tightly into the skin of his wrists. He shivers involuntarily, unwilling or unable to pull himself up off the floor. He's cold, aching, and exhausted. Mostly exhausted. The best he can do is drag himself to the corner and try to catch some sleep.
He dreams of his family. Nile's hand reaches curiously into their small campfire, the flesh crackling and melting as he grabs ahold of her arm and keeps it against the flames. Except instead of a fire, it's a furnace. Her whole body burning to ash as he stares at what remains of his brothers-in-arms. Nicky and Joe are in pieces now. Dissected and sliced just as Merrick had promised. He can still see the fear in their eyes.
"What have you done, Book?"
He kneels down beside Andy. Tries to think of a way to explain it to her. Begs her forgiveness. Promises he would do anything if it would just remove the tears forming in her eyes. She's bleeding and Quynh stands over both of them with a gun in her hand. Andy slips away in his arms beside four well-worn headstones.
His own shouting wakes him. His lungs hurt, now more than ever, even though there's plenty of air surrounding them. His vision burns with the after-images of the dead. He's so disoriented he almost completely misses the sound of gunfire, yelling and the splash of a body as it hits the water. Quynh's guard barrels into the room and storms immediately towards him. It's less than a fair fight this time, as Booker kicks; allowing himself to be grabbed and dragged forward by his heel. Close enough to sweep at the man with his other leg. The gambit pays off and he's released, wasting no time to lunge forward and wrap the chain of his cuffs tightly around his opponent's throat. He twists and pulls until the body falls slack against his arms.
Standing, he hears a male voice yelling for someone's surrender. Whoever they are, they clearly don't know who it is they're dealing with; but Booker would rather take his chances with anyone else at the moment. Scrambling for the door, he's stopped by the sword impaling his chest.
"Leaving so soon?" Quynh asks as he falls to his knees. His body momentarily spasms, thinking it's going to drown again; and it's enough time for Quynh to seize him and drag him back to his feet. With the sword at his throat, she leads him up out of the hold and into the bright shining light of the afternoon sun.
"Andy?"
His boss and sister is there. Standing in modern body armor, ancient battle ax in hand, admits a veritable sea of carnage. He counts at least five bodies scattered, slashed and cut into an impressive variety of little pieces. Nicky, Joe, and Nile flank her. Their bloody and torn clothing the only evidence of their efforts to protect her now mortal life. They look exhausted as he feels and angry. So very, very angry.
"Quyhn." He hears Andy breathe, the sound the closest he's ever come to hearing prayer on her lips.
"Andromache." The sword presses temporarily against his throat and, suddenly, he's pitching off-balance forward as Quynh says, "He's all yours."
He hears the clang of metal before a strong, familiar hand catches and steadies him; and all he can see is Andy's face calling his name. He reaches for her with a grin. "Hey, good to see you, boss."
His casual tone threatens to rip Andy's already delicate control apart. He's wet, and shivering, and it's hard to miss the evidence of a stab wound and bullet hole center mass on his chest. Even without Copley's picture showing Quynh intentionally kicking him into the water, Andy knows it would be impossible not to piece it together. She harness her anger for the moment and reaches up to caress his face.
"Sébastien. I'm so, so sorry."
He coughs up a laugh and winces, eyes dropping to the ground as if to hide from her what it is he's thinking. He mutters something in French about it being war and hesitantly leans into her touch. If Quynh is a goddess of water than Andy is that of the sun; and all Booker wants in this moment is to bask in the heat of her kindness for just a little while more.
"How sweet," Quynh's voice interrupts them. She's looming above them, just like in his nightmare. But instead of dying, Andy is shoving him behind her. Nicky pulls him swiftly to his feet as Andy plants herself firmly between Booker, the others, and Quynh, the grip on her ax tightening imperceptibly.
"What have you done, Quynh?" She demands, her suppressed anger roaring to life in a blaze of incandescent fury. Quynh smiles at her, over-joyed in the display.
"I used to dream, you know." Quynh says by way of answer, adjusting the grip on her blade to match Andy's own. "Dream that one day you would welcome me home the same way you have him." She steps forward slightly, her gaze passing fleetingly over Booker. "But now I doubt that will ever happen."
Andy looks as though she's been struck.
"Quynh, why? Why have you done this?" Her voice shakes in spite of herself. Any hopes of a happy reunion, even if only in death, lay in the tattered carnage surrounding them. She feels the others at her back, ready to follow her command. "Why not just come back to us?"
Quynh strikes without warning, her blade slicing through air. Andy has just enough time to raise her ax up to defend herself before metal sings against metal, filling the air with battle song.
"Because you weren't there!" Quynh shrieks, grabbing Andy by her armor with her free hand and pulling her opponent in for a kiss. Time freezes. So does the Scythian. Weapons slip to floor as competing passion and confusion free both warriors from their battle stance. She still tastes the same, Andy thinks as Quynh finally pulls away. To her horror, Quynh's expression is cold and despondent when she sees it again. "And now I know you were never going to come."
The words echo in solemn judgement as Quynh releases her and steps back to the stairwell of the hold. Her eyes scan the enemies before her. The youngest stares at her in shock, the other in fear or anger. Grief pools silently from those she once called brother. And Andromache, her sweet Andromache, looks as though the world has been shattered. Quynh raises her hands in abject surrender. "So, I leave my fate in your hands."
They're pain is a balm to her soul.
It's Booker who eventually breaks the silence.
"Boss." He calls out as he feels his legs begin to slip out from underneath him. He's not dying but his body is tired; and Nicky and Nile are soon the only things holding him up. It's still enough to snap Andy back into reality. Looking between a fading Booker and Quynh, she makes her decision.
"We're leaving." She says, crouching down to retrieve her ax as well as Quynh's sword beside it. The latter she hands to Joe, who takes it with a too sincere look of confusion on his face. "Toss that over." She turns back to Quynh. "There's been enough killing today."
It takes at least three of them to drag Booker onto their escape raft gently. Andy maintains her post between them and Quynh, her expression an unreadable maelstrom of emotions. Quynh herself watches the proceedings coiled like a snake looking for its moment to strike. She gives a slight wave as Andy disembarks.
"How did you find me?" Booker asks when they're a few miles up-shore and far out of sight of Quynh and her yacht.
"You can thank Copley," Nile supplies, lifting her head off his shoulder to look him in the eye. "He saw her in a crime-scene photo and worked the angle from there."
"Copley? James Copley?"
"He's not so bad when he's not selling us out," Joe interjects from his seat at the raft's motor. He meets Booker's somber gaze with a concerned one of his own. "How are you feeling?"
Booker huffs, trying to stay still as Nile curls her arms tighter around herself and rests her head against his shoulder again. The young woman has stayed glued to his side their entire escape. A steady, warm presence to remind him this was, in fact, real. "I've been better...and worse."
The joke draws a snort out of Nicky, who sits on his other side, and Joe's expression lightens into something like relief. He doesn't tell them how much that alone hurts to see. That nothing Quynh's done, or might still do to him, will match having to say goodbye to them all once they reach shore again. Instead, he takes the time to enjoy the look of outrage on Nile's face when she hears his stomach growl and the way she immediately orders Nicky and Joe to pick up pizza...any pizza as soon as they've landed. He expects Nile won't let him out of her sight until she's seen he's been properly fed and he loves her for it. But reality is reality and there's a price he still has to pay. Looking over at Andy, whose been silently staring out at the sea, he asks, "So, what's the plan now, Boss?"
"I don't know," she replies, drawing silence from the others. "But we're doing it together."
She looks over at Booker. "All of us."
Translations:*
Va te faire enculer. - Go fuck yourself
Salope - Bitch/slut
* I do not speak French, so all failures at conjugation are on me.