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42. Naifu - Not Quite the End

Naifu's body moved without her needing to direct it. Her moves were less like fighting and more like … well, mathematics. If she put her knee here at the right moment, there would be a chin to intercept it. If she stuck out her left fist it would meet groin. Her right at a different angle would drive into a chest hard enough to crack ribs. If she curved her spine at a particular degree she could avoid the blade about to gut her and plant her hands on the ground to support herself while kicking hard enough to break the guy's neck. Everything slotted together in a pattern of blood, death, screams and deep satisfaction.

She was vaguely aware of someone calling her name, but if she broke her concentration she would lose the pattern. With the attentiveness of a heroin addict heating a spoon, she followed each move to its conclusion, only to find a fresh pattern opening up from there. Her mind seemed able to see things in ways previously hidden to it. Just like she didn't question how her battered body was still moving, much less kicking ass, she didn't question how or why she could see the three-dimensional patterns. She just could.

Uppercut. Lunge. Block. Jab. Jab. Kick. Punch. Roundhouse. Jab. Jab. Jump. Turn. Donkey kick. Jab. Jab. Counter. Block. Head-butt. Jab. Jab.

"Naifu!" yelled the voice.

Kick. Punch. Leap. Jab. Jab. Block. Counter. Punch. Jab. Jab. Bend. Jump. Kick. Jab. Jab. Back kick. Elbow. Knee. Jab. Jab. Kick. Punch. Leap. Jab. Jab. Block. Counter. Punch. Jab. Jab.

"Naifu! Get outta there!"

She grabbed handfuls of hair, registered for a moment it was green, held the face beneath and twisted. She dropped that lifeless body and moved onto the next, turning her face to avoid the knife whistling at her cheek. She grabbed the wrist of the hand holding it, broke that with impossible ease and turned the nerveless grip upwards, closing her own hand around the fingers to steady the stab home into the attacker's own chest. She pulled the blade free and left him twitching, brandishing her new weapon proudly. She picked up another knife from another attacker and leapt back into the fray, hacking and slashing with deadly precision. Nobody could beat her with a blade. That was why she had renamed herself Naifu. The pun was a poor one but it had appealed to her back then. Like the other Turks could talk about weird names or nicknames? Just look at Rod with his rod, or Cissnei and whatever she was really called, or The Legendary –

"Naifu – gaaahh!" The shout became a pained yell that sliced through her concentration as well as she could slice through a throat.

She whirled, looking over the tops of those left to see Legend on his knees clutching his shoulder. Some bastard had come up behind him with a blade – probably trying to slit his throat but had fudged it. Nobody was good as her with a blade; especially when it came to throwing one. She didn't think; just went into the practised moves that had made her weapons an extension of her body all her Turk career. The knife buried itself in the forehead of Legend's attacker so hard and fast the guy was knocked straight on his back and tumbled out the big-ass hole in the wall.

Legend looked up. She met his good eye. He stared at her with pain and something she struggled to recognise through the red haze of battle. Every muscle in her zinged with energy and all her nerve endings were on fire. She was unstoppable. She was unbeatable. She was invincible.

But he wasn't. The realisation hit her like a slap to the face. These were stupid odds. Why wasn't he leaving? Because he was trying to get to her. Why was he trying to get to her? Because she was fighting stupid odds. Why did he even care? Because they were both Turks. Was that all there was to it? No, he actually cared about her.

Except that couldn't be right; Turks didn't cling; they didn't linger over death or each other. They all knew the dangers. She knew them, Legend knew them, Tseng knew them, Rod knew them –

Rod. Rod was dead. Alejandro killed him. Rod killed Alejandro. Rod was gone. She was supposed to move on. She was a Turk and Turks didn't cling or linger over death. So why was she fighting? Maybe she wasn't a good Turk after all. Maybe she was a crap Turk. Or maybe … maybe it just didn't matter anymore. Maybe there were other things that mattered more than … all this.

They hurt me, part of her thought frantically. They made me a victim again.

Only if she let them. Alejandro was gone. He had received his punishment at Rod's hands. Her partner had avenged her. The backs of her eyes suddenly burned. Rod …

Legend continued to stare at her like they weren't surrounded by a baying mob of gangbangers with nothing left to lose. Naifu ducked and slashed, revelling in the potency of her own talents. She wasn't a victim. How could she even think that? She was tough. She was strong. She was way more than the girl she had been before Veld found her. She could fight back now where she couldn't back then. Victims had stuff happen to them and couldn't do anything about it. That wasn't her. She didn't have to be a victim anymore.

The cry bubbled up inside her. "Legend!" Someone lunged at her. She met what looked like a machete with her single little blade and still managed to turn it aside. "Legend!"

His one eye widened. He straightened and threw a handful of something at the crowd. Bodies went flying at the back of the group coming at her, sending the others into a panic. Talk about squashing a fly with a pick-up truck! She couldn't even see Legend through the smoke but she remembered where he had been, vaulted the head of a guy in front of her and handsprung her way towards the cloud of smoke.

"Legend! I'm coming! Hold on!"

A hand jabbed upwards. Before she could stop herself she stepped on the flick-knife it held. The blade went through her foot, halting her progress. She shuddered with the wrong-wrong-wrong pleasure that radiated outward from the wound, stumbled and fell between the bodies beneath her. Though she tried not to she landed on her back. The mob fell on her like a pack of hungry wolves.

For several minutes all she could see were hands and flashes of ceiling. Someone yanked her hair hard enough to drag her a few feet. She kicked out and clipped some chins but was stymied when Legend's jacket buttons went flying and something thunked against her stomach. She thought it might be a boot and struggled to get out from under it but couldn't. Nausea spread through her. Maybe she could vomit on them to make them let go.

This is it, she thought wildly. This is how I'm going to die.

Which was when all hell broke loose for a second time. Shots rang out. Those gang members who were left started yelling but she couldn't make out the words through the terrible pounding in her ears. The ones holding her scattered but started dropping before they got very far. One of them refused to abandon her, instead hunkering down with his knees either side of her chest, pinning her arms in place as he drew back a fist to smash her face. He rocketed off balance when a nun-chuck cracked against his head.

"What ho there, fair maiden," said the lanky blond smear her eyes couldn't properly bring into focus. "Richie to the rescue, eh? Now don't go hugging the fellow after I've beaned him; you don't know where the rotter's been."

Richie? Which meant the gunshots had to be Helena. Which meant back-up had finally arrived. Which meant it was over. Which meant she could stop now. Which meant … which meant … which meant …

"L-Legend," she stuttered, suddenly desperate to see him. He had to be okay; please say he was okay. She shoved aside the guy who had fallen on her and struggled to get up. She didn't care whether the bozo was dead or just unconscious; he weighed a ton and she needed to shift him so she could make sure she hadn't got Legend killed by making him come after her back into the lion's den. She would never forgive herself if she had caused anything to happen to him "Legend! Nggh – where are you?"

"Now there's a fine thank-you-very-much-Richie-for-saving-me."

"Richie," said Helena's familiar monotone. "Shut up and help her."

The dead weight was lifted off Naifu by two sets of helping hands. She sprang up – or tried to. It was more of a lurching stumble, to be honest. She looked around at the sea of devastation, searching for one figure in particular. She saw him after a moment, stumbling towards her with one arm clutched to his chest, leaving great splashes of blood where he walked. She blinked, still trying to focus. Where was his hand? The arm he clutched ended abruptly. Where was his damn hand? He stopped and stared at her but she was busy gazing at his missing limb.

"Y-Your hand," she stammered, having difficulty drawing breath. The nausea knocked around in her belly and throat as adrenaline leeched from her system, leaving a cold wash of reality in its wake. She was pretty much naked except for the open jacket, streaked in blood and gore and standing amidst a pile of bodies like some ancient spirit of war and violence. "Legend, I'm s-so s-sorry … your h-hand …"

Helena gasped. It was only a tiny inhalation, nothing Naifu would have heard if not for the silence and the fact that Helena didn't gasp at anything. Naifu looked and saw both Helena and Richie were focussed entirely on her, not the scene around them, though they surely had to have questions. Richie gagged a little.

"Naifu," Helena murmured. "Your stomach …"

Bewildered, Naifu looked down at herself – and at the large knife sticking out of her gut. She stared at it for several seconds, unable to understand what it was in the context of herself. She recognised it as something Alejandro had used on her before but couldn't understand what it was doing in her now. The wound itself was bleeding, ragged at the edges and so deep she could see slivers of pulsing pinkish-red things around the sides. She raised her gaze, still perplexed, but her knees chose that moment to buckle. Strong arms caught her. She though they belonged to Richie but Helena eased her to the floor, her own dark suit getting stained by all the blood on Naifu.

"Richie, your Phoenix Down," she snapped at her partner. "I already used mine on Legend."

"No!" Naifu struggled weakly, strength sapping from her muscles with every passing second. Where was all her manic energy going? She was killing people a few minutes ago; now she couldn't even stand up? What the hell? "Not Phoenix Down!"

"Hold still," said Helena.

"No!" Naifu pushed against the other woman, leaving bloody handprints on her face and neck. "Not again! Don't make me go through that again!"

"You have to –"

"NO!"

"Sureshot! Quit struggling!" Legend appeared in her peripheral vision and she immediately froze.

"Don't let them do that to me again," she begged him. "Please."

"Why doesn't she want to be healed?" Richie asked.

"They gave her Lucid. It does weird shit when combined with Phoenix Down."

"She's already been administered with a Phoenix Down since this started?" Helena asked sharply.

"Uh-huh. You're looking at the results."

She cursed under her breath.

"L-Legend," Naifu stuttered.

"I'm here, Sureshot."

She reached for him, then remembered his missing hand and let out a few curses of her own. "I'm … sorry."

"For what?"

"Your hand –"

"My choice," he said decisively, hiding the offending arm behind his back as if that would make her forget about it. "Forget about it."

The idiocy of his statement made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. "I'm sorry," she continued to apologise. Her vision was getting hazier and hazier. Someone touched her hair, smoothing what was left of it back off her face. She hoped it was him with his good hand. One good hand and one good eye; what was next, one good foot? One good ear? One good nostril? "I'm so sorry. I d-didn't mean to … to get you … h-hurt …"

"Part of the job, right? We all know the risks. Besides, it was worth it to come rescue you and get to play the hero for once. Makes a change in our line of work." His voice caught. "You did good, Suresh- Nai-… Adrienne."

"I like … Sureshot … better." Dark spots freckled her sight. She blinked rapidly but they didn't go. "Legend?" Genuine fear tinged her voice. She suddenly had something to say that was so urgent it burned her voice-box to be free.

"Yeah?"

"I … I wish …" She swallowed. The sides of her throat stuck together. "I l-liked … when you … kissed me … wish I c-could've … kissed y-you … again."

"Aw fuck, Sureshot."

"Maybe not … that far …" Her mouth curved upwards until she coughed and her whole body convulsed. Distant pain echoed the amount she should have been feeling, if not for the cocktail still in her veins. Small mercies were still mercies. "Le … Le …" She coughed and shuddered, splattering wet sticky blood onto her own chin. "Le …gen … d."

Then the darkness, held at bay for so long, finally caught up and claimed her.