Hello there, people of the internet!

I know I haven't updated this story in three months, and I'm incredibly sorry for that, but… sometimes real life takes precedence, and with finals approaching, I didn't have the time to write as much as I originally planned to. I aced those exams though, so now I'm free to do whatever I damn well please until October at the very least — meaning that I'll probably end up writing more drabbles and update this story every few weeks.

Thank you guys so much for all your comments, critiques and reviews! I've read each and every one of them, and I can't tell you just how happy they've made me. Of course, there were some things that weren't as clear as they probably should have been, but I sincerely hope that this chapter will make up for the "plotholes" I inadvertently tossed at you. 3

Either way, I hope you'll enjoy the new chapter! If you have any more questions regarding it, feel free to post a review, message me directly, or send me a message on my rpg-blog (same username on tumblr). Hearing from you always makes my day!

-Yelena

P.S.: You can expect the chapters to gain in length from this point onward! ;)


Marten Gunderson had never much appreciated the dusky gloom of the Strahov — had never been able to shake the feeling that someone, something was watching his every step, every breath, like a black widow waiting for the right moment to pounce — but this … this was, undoubtedly, worse. For about a dozen different reasons.

The walls felt too high, too alive, as he strode down one of the few heated corridors in the entire complex, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his thick, gray overcoat as though the gesture alone would be enough to frighten the less experienced, less scornful mercenaries wandering about, to keep them from approaching or even greeting him. Not that the Cabal had much of those, in any case; and even if they did, he highly doubted their high spirits would survive the first few hours of service — if the men themselves even survived them. Hell, he'd beaten the youthful glee right out of his own soldiers when Eckhardt had first appointed him his third in command; had shredded right through their minds and broken their spirits like dry sprigs in the summer heat.

Yet, perhaps, it had been a mercy. A blessing, even, to destroy them so thoroughly that they barely seemed to notice how inhumane they had become, how odd the food tasted, how stiff their muscles were. How little of them had remained.

And though he would never admit it, during some of the longer, colder nights, Gunderson found himself envying them for the darkness in their chests and the vast emptiness in their eyes.

Passing a cluster of what he could only assume were particularly unlucky maids, Marten ground his teeth and rolled his shoulders; his chest heaving and falling with deep, forced breaths as he quickened his step. He didn't look forward to this meeting, not in the slightest. Ever since the girl had escaped, ever since she'd pushed Karel out of her mind and countered his mental attack with one of her own, his boss had been beside himself with anger — lashing out at anyone and anything unlucky enough to be within his vicinity: The desk, the vials he'd carefully placed onto a special altar of sorts, his own men, his playthings. No one, nothing, had been able to escape his wrath.

He had grown near obsessed with Croft in the weeks following her escape, sending out mercenaries and henchmen alike to track her every step and demanding updates every couple of hours, though never bothering to have them bring her in. Not that they, or anyone, could.

Hell — if she'd been able to disarm a dozen well-trained men and lash out at Karel while being under the influence of various drugs, he didn't want to know what she could do when left to her own devices.

Suppressing the urge to grimace at the thought, Gunderson shook his head and pushed onward, down and down and down, until the rising cold began to tickle his face and creep beneath his clothing, almost as though it were a sentient being rather than yet another annoying inconvenience. A hellhole, that was all this place truly was. A gods-damned, reeking hellhole of a building, with no windows or signs of human decency to speak of.

Croft had brought life into this place — so much glittering, burning light, that his boss had hardly managed to breathe the same air she had without gnashing his teeth and demanding she be bloodied up a bit more, tortured a bit longer. And he'd obeyed, begrudgingly or no. He'd obeyed, and paid a high price for it.

The truth of the matter was, Gunderson didn't know if she was truly aware of what she could do; or, if she did, how to use it to her advantage. She'd never been as raw, as savagely fierce as she had been when he'd broken her nose or temporarily blinded her, had never done anything without carefully thinking it through beforehand. Gods, even when they had captured that rutting Lux Veritatis warrior, the one person she'd seemed somewhat drawn to, she'd hesitated before opting to safe him. But that was then, and heaven only knew what else Karel had tried to do to her while his back was turned.

Gunderson didn't look down as he pulled his scarred hand out of his pocket and reached for the doorknob at the end of the corridor. He didn't have to, either. She had burned him thoroughly enough to cause lasting damage — the kind that never stopped hurting, no matter how much he tried to ignore it, and the kind that was so well-deserved he could barely fault her for it; especially considering the fact that he had been the one to offer her the rutting torch in the first place.

Which did not mean that he wouldn't rip out her throat and feed it to his dogs if given the opportunity.

Pushing the heavy, steel-forged door open, Gunderson squared his shoulders and shoved the thought back down, into the deepest, darkest corner of his mind. Lara Croft was none of his personal business, not any longer, and even though he wouldn't mind seeing her broken and defenseless once more, he had more important issues to deal with.

"Gunderson." Karel's voice sounded near-foreign against the cold stone surrounding them, his tone low and vicious, though hardly sharp enough to be a cause for actual concern. "You're late."

"We've had another incident near the vault," he replied matter-of-factly, his eyes never leaving his boss's hunched form. He'd turned his back on him, his hands braced against the makeshift altar he'd shoved against the far wall of his office; thinking, perhaps, or trying to make sense of something he hadn't bothered to share with his second-in-command. "Nothing major, but surprisingly time-consuming. My apologies."

The Nephilim raised his hand once — whether to silence him or the voices in his head, he couldn't quite tell. "Make sure your soldiers understand what they're sacrificing by… causing so much havoc." A pause. "There've been too many casualties already. I need them to stop thinking."

Gunderson bristled, but gave a tentative nod. He'd been forced to neutralize too many of his own men during the past few months, so much was certain; and if their ideas had already taken root among the rest of them…

"Of course." Bowing his head once, he gnashed his teeth and set his jaw. No more casualties, no more rogue mercenaries. He could handle that. "About the — target."

Karel didn't move, though the mercenary could have sworn a muscle just below his left eye began to twitch. "Report."

"She's in France — Paris." He hesitated, his shoulders sagging slightly as he loosed a breath. "My men mentioned seeing someone of Trent's built with her, but haven't confirmed his identity yet."

Not a lie, but not the entire truth either. They had not been able to identify him based on the photos Gunderson had sent them, claiming his nose or hair or mouth looked slightly different, but had agreed that he'd carried various, ancient-looking weapons on his belt. Not to mention the fact that he couldn't imagine Croft meeting anyone but Trent, especially not if she went to the filthiest part of town to do so.

"Did she bring the blade?"

He straightened when Karel turned, expecting the mental onslaught, the agony — but neither came. "No."

"Clever girl," he scoffed and dropped into the chair behind his desk, completely ignoring the scratches and dents he'd left in it as he brushed a stack of papers aside. "What else?"

"She doesn't seem to remember much; and keeps her distance from the Lux Veritatis."

A slow, tentative nod; then: "Keep trailing her. If she becomes a direct threat — you know the drill."

~x~

"I most certainly will not."

Seated in the middle of her hotel room, Lara Croft shook her head and leaned back in her chair; her eyes aflame with anger and thinly veiled amusement as she took in the scenery before her. It had taken Kurtis five minutes to turn the room into a bloody mess, covering every available surface in books and maps and whatever else he'd deemed important enough to go over, without ever bothering to check if she was still following along. Although she wouldn't be surprised if he simply didn't care.

"That wasn't a question." He didn't even take the time to look up from the cluster of documents he was so gods-damned focused on; his nose crinkled and his brows furrowed as he tossed a good number of them aside. "We can't rely on any of the information we've gotten so far."

She heaved a sigh, but stayed where she was — her legs draped over the arm of her chair as she watched him with feigned interest, two steaming plates resting on her knees. "While that may be true, we can't assume that Karel kept the same company Eckhardt did. Capture and question the wrong man, and your entire … plan could go south in a heartbeat."

He pursed his lips, but didn't argue. Perhaps he'd finally realized that she hadn't been manipulated in any way, that she hadn't reconsidered her loyalties, no matter how long the Cabal had held her captive; which was, admittedly, a feat in itself, even if she didn't feel comfortable admitting it.

"Pierre's guest," she went on after another minute or two, her chin raised and her shoulders squared as she offered him one of the two plates, "he was one of Gunderson's men?"

Kurtis nodded, though his face remained impassive as he dumped the rest of the papers and reached for the plate. "It's a possibility. That's why I asked you to be yourself, rather than smiling through your teeth."

She didn't bother pointing out that she had, in fact, been glad to see him again — alive and in one piece, wearing the same cocky smile she'd come to loathe; the one that now seemed to blossom on his lips, like a flicker of humor hiding among the stern arrogance. Didn't realize you liked me that much.

"I don't." Rolling her eyes at the faint, smug glimmer in his eyes, Lara shook her head and focused on her dinner instead. "And I don't appreciate you poking around my thoughts either, Trent."

"Perhaps you shouldn't shout them at me, then," he shot, his tone light and cheery enough for her to wish he choked on his gods-damned broccoli already. "And swearing at me won't help you, either. You'll have to learn to push me out of your head — and how to shield yourself, so no one else will attempt to attack you." He seemed to hesitate then, twisting his fork between his fingers as he glanced at her. "If you managed to counter Karel's powers, blocking me out shouldn't be an issue for you."

There was something in the way he spoke, the way he watched her, that made her bristle; though she still managed to offer him a half-hearted laugh and a soft sneer. "Who knows, perhaps I'm just toying with you. Feeding you false information in case you're not who you said you were."

To his credit, Kurtis didn't bother reprimanding her for her ill humor — though his lopsided smirk and slight tilt of the head told her enough about his train of thought to know he wasn't likely to drop the topic anytime soon. Smug bastard.

"You said you couldn't remember much of what happened in Prague." Ignoring the insults she continued to toss at him, he lowered himself onto the nearby couch and rested his plate beside him; hesitating, almost, before pushing it aside. "Was that part of your act, or just a statement of fact?"

There was no use in lying to him; not now, nor ever. "A statement of fact. All I remember is being in pain, and then … Karel, talking to me, to someone else. He never approached me as far as I can recall, but he hardly ever stopped talking to me." She paused then, lifting her shoulders in a soft, almost indifferent shrug before turning to face him. "There were other people, too — Gunderson, perhaps, but I couldn't be sure."

Even though he tried his best to hide it, she saw the flicker of pity in his eyes; that rutting, gods-damned sympathy that she neither needed nor wanted, no matter what Karel had done to her. She'd survived, after all. She'd survived, and she'd drawn as much strength as she possibly could from what had happened, taking every ounce, every bit of pain, and turning it into wrath and fire, smoke and cinders. A promise of violence.

"We could attempt to question one of his men, then," Kurtis said, his tone much harsher, much colder now, as he surveyed the fresh scars peeking out of her neckline. "Force him to talk, to tell us what they did — how they did it."

She shrugged, the corner of her mouth quirking upward as she assessed him. Didn't realize you liked me that much.

The laugh that burst out of him in turn was so raw, so bizarrely free that she couldn't help but gawk at him; her head tilted to the side as she watched him lean back and pinch the bridge of his nose with two fingers, as if he were in utter disbelief over her words.

"Touché, Croft." He grinned then, a sight so viciously fierce she could have sworn she felt her own lips stretch in response. "Seems like I've underestimated you."

He didn't mention that he had still meant every word he'd said, every promise he'd made. Not that he truly had to.

Her grin only widening as she dipped her chin and loosed a soft chuckle, Lara shook her head; watching him for a second or two before shrugging. "We can't just take one of them and ask him to break his oath," she stated, her chest falling with a heavy, exhausted sigh as she leaned back. "And besides, Gunderson would know. We can't afford that right now."

No, they couldn't make any more mistakes — especially not when they were out in public. She'd already made enough of those when she had returned from the Andaman rainforest; when she'd called anyone who might've known Kurtis, anyone who might have seen him or heard from him. Anyone who could have told her where to find him, no matter if they were trustworthy or no.

But then again, she'd caused enough havoc to draw him right back to her, which had, in turn, made her life much easier. For the time being, at least.

"Gunderson has too much on his hands to worry about lone soldiers." Kurtis rubbed his eyes as he spoke, all signs of humor drained from his face. "He might reprimand the rest of them if one of their own goes missing, but unless they, themselves, talked…"

Lara knew what he was trying to say — knew that they could only avoid so much bloodshed in a war as brutal as this one — but couldn't find a part of her that disagreed, a part that fought against the notion of ripping out Gunderson's men's hearts one by one. "Unless you manage to convince them to wear matching bows, I don't think that your plan will work. If one of them saw us kidnapping his… colleague, Karel would still find out about it. And retaliate."

Of course, she was only guessing at this point. And quite frankly, she was beyond sick of it — the contradictory statements, the lack of proof, the looming threat at the horizon…

"We need to start over." Resting her plate on the only table that had escaped Kurtis's never-ending lectures, Lara shook her head and braced her hands on her hips. "What do we really know?"

He shrugged, watching her as she skimmed a few of the documents he'd scattered around. "Karel hasn't given up on his plans yet, and is most likely looking for another Sleeper." A pause, then: "He's more powerful than we anticipated, but hasn't been able to manipulate you — why not, I don't know."

"Gunderson's still working for him," she added, frowning at a particularly puzzling sketch before pursing her lips and sighing. "The Cabal. We have no idea who else is affiliated with them, or what their goals are. If there are others like Boaz."

If there had ever been a sight she hadn't been able to forget, it must have been the creature Kurtis had fought; the beast that had been half-woman half-demon, the thing that had smelled like a sewer drain and screeched like a hawk. A man-made monster — and one of many, if the creatures she'd stumbled upon in the Biodome had been any proof.

"I could take another look at my father's notes," Kurtis offered after a moment, his eyes bright and clear as they met hers. "Find out who he trailed back then, who to look out for… if there truly is another Sleeper."

She nodded, though her brows remained tightly knitted. "A new approach, then. You take care of the Cabal, and anything else that might have something to do with Karel himself. I will fly back to England tomorrow, gather as much information as I can on the Paintings and the Sanglyph, and make sure Zip will do whatever he's capable of to find their new hideout."

"What about your own safety, then? You're just going to cross your fingers and hope he won't attempt to break your skull open again?"

Exactly what she had planned to do, but — he didn't have to know that. Not when her well-being was neither important nor utterly relevant to their cause, not when all she cared about was destroying the Sleeper. And, of course, Karel.

"You'll know where to find me," she muttered eventually, handing him the piece of paper she'd studied before. "Should we have some time to spare, then by all means, tell me how to… shield myself from people like you and Karel. But as of right now, we have more important matters to attend to."

If he had planned on contradicting her, challenging her, he didn't voice his intent — and as she turned to leave, he didn't bother stopping her.