Before Crisis: The Beginning
By DarkAngel
Disclaimer: The majority of this stuff belongs to Square-Enix. I only claim ownership of the original Turks' names and some theories/technicalities. This fic is not intended for profit.
Chapter 24: Run the Gauntlet
By the time St. Andrew caught up with the train, he was beat. He'd run through tunnel after tunnel to catch up with the train, only to find himself having missed it by seconds each time. This was his third go-round. He was had barely made it this time – the last car had just been passing him when he got out of the tunnel. With strength he hadn't thought possible, St. Andrew had run, practically throwing himself at the train. Scrabbling wildly, he had managed to grab onto the side of the train. From there it had been a not-so-easy climb to the top of the train, and from there inside.
Taking some moments to catch his breath, St. Andrew looked around. There was nobody here, as expected. Laylee and her captors were somewhere else. He wondered if Cloud was all right. The boy had jumped without hesitation onto the train as it was leaving; that same reckless behaviour might have gotten him killed. St. Andrew frowned at the thought.
After making a brief report to Veld, St. Andrew walked toward the end of the train car. In one of them was Laylee and that disk.
As soon as he opened the door, St. Andrew was greeted by AVALANCHE members. Well, not greeted exactly – they weren't standing there holding out welcome banners and party favours – but there were about half a dozen of them grouped together, talking in low voices. One of them looked up at the sound of the car door rolling shut behind St. Andrew. The spine of the operative stiffened and he pointed. "A Turk!"
The others looked round in his direction, startled. "Where was he hiding?!" another operative shouted.
"Who cares?" The first one who had picked up on his presence had by now regained his composure. "Kill him!" With those words they all took out weapons and began running at St. Andrew.
St. Andrew made quick work of his opponents. He knocked out the first operative and blasted the weapon out of the hand of a second operative with a well-placed lightning spell. The other four took a little time, only because they all came at him at once and it wasn't so easy to fight four against one, even for him. When he'd finished, there were six AVALANCHE operatives lying prone on the floor at his feet. The last operative he'd brought down groaned. St. Andrew rapped her smartly on the head with his weapon, then opened the door to the next car.
This car was, unlike the last one, empty. St. Andrew ran down the aisle, determined to get to Laylee and the others, even just that one second faster. He couldn't keep the dismal image of Cloud and the escort fighting to stave off AVALANCHE's attacks. He really hoped the kid wasn't dead.
A whizzing sound broke through St. Andrew's thoughts. He dived behind a set of seats, and just in time. Peering around the seat, he ducked again as another bullet came flying at his head. Damn! The bastard must have been hiding, lying in wait for St. Andrew. Annoyed at being caught off guard, he released a boosted lightning spell from his mag-rod. The operative went down with a sizzling thump.
Kicking the operative aside, St. Andrew paused at the door to the next compartment. What was waiting for him here?
He got his answer soon enough. The barrel of something large and nasty looking was staring him in the face from the other end of the train car. Manning said large and nasty thing was another operative.
"You won't get past my Wasp Shooter," the operative shouted, and with that, fired.
"Shit!" St. Andrew barely had time to get out of the way as a hail of bullets whizzed with incredible speed at him. Shiva, that had been too close. St. Andrew breathed hard, listening to the staccato bursts of the bullets as they gouged themselves into the wall some few feet from where his head had been. His heart was working double time in his chest, and his palms felt slick with sweat. Wiping his hand on his trousers and readjusting his grip on his weapon, he thought of how to proceed from here.
There was a space of about 1.5 feet between each set of seats. Depending on the timing between rounds, he could duck behind each set before the next round of bullets could reach him. It was a pretty risky tactic. But he needed to get close enough to damage his opponent, and unfortunately, the extended lightning trick Reno had taught him just didn't work from this far away. All he needed was to get a few feet closer…
Decision made, he stood up. A hail of bullets whizzed at him. St. Andrew ducked and waited. The moment the last bullet passed him, he stood up again. Another burst of deadly metal was sent his way.
Three seconds. It took three seconds between shots. That was cutting things really fine. If he missed even once, he would be Swiss cheese. By now his heart was beating so hard it was painful. He didn't often think about death, but sometimes in this job it was inevitable. It was just too damned bad he had to be having a moment now. Closing his eyes, he breathed, counting to ten. He peered around the corner to see if the operative was still manning the weapon, and got his response. Pingpingpingping! The wall behind him now looked like a massacre without the blood. So far.
Fuck, this was stupid. Why are you wearing this goddamned suit anyway? St. Andrew berated himself. Because you wanted to be the best. And now you're whimpering and hiding here like some kid behind his mom's skirt. Ifrit, if Reno could see you now…
The thought of the redhead smirking at him and shaking his head in that patronizing way he had was exactly what he needed. Within seconds he was standing up again, and when the chance came, he took it. As soon as the last bullet whizzed by him, St. Andrew was throwing himself into the next set of seats. Okay. Stage one cleared.
He did it twice more, each time throwing himself as fast and as far as he could out of the bullets' range. His shoulder twinged as he impacted with the wall, and his legs were bent upwards, squashed between the seats, but he found this position far preferable to the one he could be in – a giant spattered heap bleeding all over the floor.
Checking again, he found that he was just within 'shooting range', as it was. The tables are turning, he thought, a vicious grin stretching his features.
St. Andrew stood up. "Hey! Yeah, you, you son of a – " Rosalind would have cringed if she were here. The thought made St. Andrew grin wider. "I've got a surprise for you!" And with a flick of his wrist, lightning was hurtling right at his target – not at the operative, but at the blasted Wasp Shooter which had caused his moment of disequilibrium. The impact made a tremendous sound. St. Andrew ducked. The grin he'd been sporting grew to shit-eating proportions as the sounds of flying debris mingled with the alarmed squawk of the operative. As his aunt had been so fond of saying, it was always better to give than to receive.
He came out from behind the seats. Looking at his handiwork, he couldn't help but whistle. Wow. He hadn't any idea that this would happen. The floor was blackened in the area the explosion had occurred, the Wasp Shooter itself was in burnt pieces all over the floor. Shrapnel pockmarked the walls and seats around him. And the operative...
St. Andrew knelt down. Dead. Grimly, St. Andrew stood back up, and, after brushing himself off a little, moved on to the next compartment.
--
"Have you heard the news?"
Samantha wearily flipped up her eye mask and looked to the owner of the voice. Ugh. She'd just gotten back from a mission earlier that day. She'd been hoping to rest.
"No," she replied, covering her eyes once more and bringing her head back down onto the couch. The sounds of a television commercial filled her ears, and she prayed Rafe would take the hint and leave her alone. He was pretty good at reading signals, after all.
Not today, though, apparently. Sitting himself down beside her, he continued. "St. Andrew's latest mission. Things aren't going so well. And there's a new breed of AVALANCHE trooper out there."
Samantha found herself flipping her mask up again. Rafe was now reaching for the remote to change the channel, but she grabbed it from him. He raised his eyebrows. She glared. For some moments they were silent.
"Why did you come to tell me this? Can't you see I'm resting?" she snapped. The impact of her words would perhaps have carried more weight if she had said them sooner, and Rafe shrugged them off. Then again, he always seemed to shrug off what everybody else around him said, as if he wasn't part of the picture. She hated that about him.
"If you really wanted to be left alone, you would have gone to your room."
"I haven't had time to buy a TV," she shot back, but she grudgingly allowed Rafe to reach around her and take up the remote once more.
It was true, that part about the TV. Normally she would have outfitted her room with a lot more things by now if it wasn't for the fact that she just wasn't around very much to think about home furnishings, and in any case, the TV here was just as good. She liked to come here when the others were out. This was her alone spot, and any Turk passing by who saw the mask over her face usually knew well enough to leave her alone. Still, Rafe had come to her for a reason.
"Well?" she said at last. "Are you going to tell me why you found it so important to tell me that?"
Rafe shrugged. The TV was showing a game of basketball. Samantha was about to tell him off, but Rafe beat her to it. "I just came back from HQ. I spent the last six hours digging up information about these new soldiers and AVALANCHE's funding… where they might be getting otherwise classified information." Rafe made a small gesture with his hand as though to say 'and all the rest'.
Samantha raised her head once more at that. "Come to think of it, how did AVALANCHE find out about Andrew's mission? That was only between us and the execs, wasn't it?"
"Exactly."
She stared at him for a few moments. "Okay," she said slowly. "But that still doesn't explain why you're here telling me all of this."
Rafe's mouth twitched. "Well, I've finished my work for the day. We're taking it in turns to sift through that data."
Her eyes narrowed. "Rosalind's next on that roster, not me."
"Rosalind's in Icicle just now. Which leaves –"
Samantha threw a couch cushion at his head. "Bastard!" The very last thing she wanted to do was pull herself up from this couch, get dressed and spend countless hours in front of a computer screen courting boredom. Besides, Rafe was the best at this whole information technology thing. Wouldn't it have just made more sense to allow Rafe to do the whole thing?
Nonchalantly, he replaced the cushion she had thrown behind his back, so as to better support himself. The look he shot her was one she would gladly have smacked off his face… but she closed her eyes and thought of inner poise. It wouldn't do for a Hartigan to go flying off the handle and making a… display. Breathing in deeply, she smiled at her partner.
"Fine. I'll go. Enjoy your evening."
Rafe made an indistinguishable sound from somewhere beneath his absorption with the basketball. She might as well have thrown the tantrum for all the attention he was giving her. She turned away, her hair flying behind her as she went. Men! Honestly, she wasn't sure just why she bothered.
As she got ready to go to the office, though, her thoughts wandered. This new breed of AVALANCHE obviously meant that they intended to step up their attacks against the Shin-Ra. While Samantha might not have been a direct part of her father's company, she knew enough about large organizations to recognize a few things. They were getting massive amounts of funding from somewhere, and it couldn't all be coming from those front groups AVALANCHE had going. That they were actually starting to divide their soldiers into different specialized troops was also significant – it reminded her of the way Shin-Ra operated, with its divisions between the general soldiery and SOLDIER. There were ideas and cash and gods knew what else flowing between AVALANCHE and some unknown supporter. This didn't all boil down to saving the planet and being environmental goody goodies. Samantha knew an ulterior motive when she saw one. The question was, how did you unravel all of this and find the puppet master behind the whole thing?
Samantha's lips curled upwards. Well, it might not have been on a grassy savannah or back in the woods of her home, but a hunt was a hunt. If there was one thing she was good at, it was marking her target and bringing down her prey. She could just imagine Shears' head mounted on her wall.
Feeling a whole lot better about this business with sitting at the computer, Samantha flicked her hair out from her jacket collar and spun around in a circle, checking to make sure she hadn't missed anything. Then, whistling, she left her apartment, letting the door click shut behind her.
--
There was nothing in Icicle except snow, snow, and maybe for variation's sake –
Oh, to hell with it. All there was was snow. Having grown up in the slums, Rosalind hadn't really had much experience with the white stuff. Plus, on the temperature side, winters had been fairly mild as well. The wind here bit into her skin and froze her blood. She was pretty sure that if she stood still for more than one minute, she'd just stick there forever, literally frozen to death.
Still, it was kind of nice, she mused, taking a sip of the cocoa she'd brought up to her room. After all, this was the first time she'd seen snow, and the flakes were kind of pretty when observed from her hotel room window. If only she could have stayed indoors for the entirety of her mission, she might have appreciated the snow a little more. After all, it wasn't as though she had anything against it, but the cold that went with it had really caught her by surprise.
It was just as well that she was coming home soon anyway. She'd finished up her surveys of the few towns with any significant population and had found only one case she'd call anything resembling suspicious. She'd just been typing up her report to send to Tseng when the hotel manager had come knocking on her door, telling her that her ride back was delayed indefinitely.
"It's the snow, ma'am," the man had explained apologetically. "We're getting a storm front heading this way in the next few hours, and all transports in and out are locked down."
Rosalind blinked. Surely on a continent which was used to dealing with inclement weather there were ways and means to get around?
"But flying in a blizzard isn't what I'd call conducive to long life, ma'am," the man said, shrugging, still looking apologetic. "I know you were set to leave, but people have died out in the storms before. We'd prefer to have you here among the living."
"I see." Rosalind thanked the man and shut the door behind her. She wondered if the storm would interfere with phone signals. Reaching for the black device, she checked. As isolated as this place was, the most she'd gotten her entire stay here was two out of three reception bars. Now it was fluctuating as she paced the room, bouncing from two to one and back again. She frowned. If she was going to let anyone at headquarters know, she'd better do it now.
"I see," Tseng said in exactly the same tone Rosalind had used earlier on the hotel manager when he heard the news. "There's ho help for it, then. Stay where you are and finish your report. Don't take any unnecessary risks." Which probably meant 'Don't go frolicking in the snow and get yourself buried under' as much as it did 'Don't go picking unnecessary fights with AVALANCHE'. Rosalind nodded before remembering that Tseng couldn't see her. "Yes sir."
Settling back down, she stared at her computer screen. She hadn't been looking at it for a minute when she heard another knock at her door. She raised her eyebrows. What now?
Getting up, she opened the door, her mind still half on her unfinished report, and still half on the fact that she wouldn't be getting home for a little while longer. The report didn't bother her so much as the sudden and surprising wave of 'homesickness', for lack of a better word did.
She was so caught up in her thoughts she didn't notice that the person standing there in front of her door wasn't the hotel manager, or even a staff member. Not until she'd looked up and gasped did she realize her mistake, and by then, it was too late.
--
St. Andrew was standing over the prone form of yet another operative. This time he'd been running down the train car when he'd heard the compartment door behind him. It had only been thanks to his speed and luck that the bullet had missed; St. Andrew hadn't given himself time to dwell on this, opting instead to retaliate. A quick blow to the head had been all it'd taken.
Breathing heavily, St. Andrew attempted to get his heart rate down to a level that hopefully wouldn't have him having an attack anywhere in the next few minutes. It wasn't like he hadn't expected something like this when he'd boarded the train. He remembered all too well the numbers AVALANCHE had possessed, not to mention their willingness to use any means to achieve their ends. But damn, did he have to get jumped every second?! He laughed, a sound that was less amusement than a tired series of gasps.
Sooner or later I'll catch up with Cloud and the others. I just hope they're in okay shape.
Standing up to his full height, St. Andrew made for the next train car, pointedly ignoring the bullet embedded in the wall ahead of him.
The first thing he spotted when he entered the next train car was a blonde head crouched down between two brown-garbed men. There was another operative standing directly in front of Cloud, his weapon drawn. St. Andrew's stomach clenched unpleasantly.
There came a low laugh from the operative standing in front of Cloud. As St. Andrew got closer, he heard something about Cloud really wanting to die before he smacked Cloud with the butt of his weapon.
"Hey! Hold on!" St. Andrew yelled. He'd spent the better part of Ifrit knew how long being attacked and jumped and subjected to a gauntlet of bullets. Now, seeing these brown-jumpsuited assholes preparing to cap a boy who was barely old enough to shave, was enough to snap St. Andrew's tether. And so it was that when the AVALANCHE operatives shot around, St. Andrew overdid it a bit.
The first operative didn't even have time to train his weapon on St. Andrew before he found himself being unceremoniously and rather enthusiastically being knocked down. St. Andrew grinned, flicking his gaze to Cloud and the doctor, who was standing behind the remaining operatives.
"You all right?"
"I'm all right, but…" Laylee glanced at Cloud, who was still crouched down, breathing unsteadily.
"Cloud…" St. Andrew muttered. The kid was a pitiful sight. He'd been kicked around several times by the look of it; the purpling bruises on his face were more than plain enough to see. His weapon was some feet away from him. St. Andrew's gaze narrowed on the AVALANCHE operatives standing there.
"Don't move," one of the operatives said, and St. Andrew could hear his voice shaking. "If you do, this punk's as good as dead."
The irritation that had been needling at St. Andrew morphed into something else. Did they really think threats were going to work? So they were hard enough to beat on some kid but they were scared of dealing with a Turk? St. Andrew laughed. "Don't make me laugh," he said. "You're about to piss yourselves and you know it." He spared Cloud a glance. "Stay out of my way this time, Cloud." This whole business was pissing him off and he was going to be the one to put an end to it.
It wasn't much of a fight, much to St. Andrew's disappointment. AVALANCHE may have had the advantage in terms of their numbers, but the majority of these operatives clearly had no or limited field combat experience. It was laughable how easily he upset their formation – all he'd had to do was run at them, his weapon swinging at their heads. Whirling on the spot, he'd hit one guy in the face, following up with a blow to the head and a final kick to the midsection. The next operative, who'd actually gained a bit of spine and pulled out a firearm, was also dealt with in the same way. St. Andrew's fist crashed into his nose, and St. Andrew felt a surge of savage triumph as he felt it break. The operative stumbled back. Several well-placed blows later, the operative was collapsing at St. Andrew's feet. St. Andrew nudged his victim with his foot; no movement. Good.
"Cloud, can you stand?" he asked, sticking out his hand for the boy to take.
The boy didn't take his hand. Instead he glared at St. Andrew. His look was almost… defiant, and it made St. Andrew stiffen. What had he done?
"Why are you here?" Cloud continued to glare. St. Andrew had to give him credit: never mind the fact that the boy was still flat on his ass, his determination was really something. Still, what the hell was he talking about?
"Have you come here to put the doctor in danger again?"
Huh? St. Andrew's brows knitted together. Okay, now the kid had really lost him. How exactly was he putting the doctor in danger? He'd come here to save…
St. Andrew turned away. He'd almost forgotten. When it came right down to it, the doctor wasn't as important as the information she was carrying; he'd been told this over and over again, and here was that reminder once again. He swallowed.
"Look, the data the doc's carrying is important to the company. If AVALANCHE gets their hands on it, there's no telling what'd happen." It was the best rationalization he could come out with, though he realized that Cloud would probably find it a poor excuse; St. Andrew himself couldn't really justify this one either. He wasn't supposed to justify it. He was just supposed to do as he was told. He scowled.
"So you're willing to throw away her life to protect it," Cloud said, his voice angry. He was so self-righteous. So very young with his mind filled with all these ideals that didn't always work in the real world. St. Andrew didn't want to be the one to disabuse him of these notions.
"I'm not throwing anybody's life away." Even as he said it, he knew it sounded half-hearted.
Cloud could obviously see that. "You've put her in unnecessary danger. That's the same thing."
St. Andrew opened his mouth to argue, but Cloud cut him off. "There's got to be a way to protect the doctor." His gaze, locked on St. Andrew, didn't waver. His voice was steady. And there was that damned determination in his eyes again. St. Andrew closed his mouth. He couldn't say anything. Not a damned thing. Because he was right, and St. Andrew knew it.
The PHS in St. Andrew's pocket rang. Reluctantly, he fished it out, glancing at the display screen. He swallowed again.
"St. Andrew, what's your status?" It was Veld.
"I've caught up with Laylee," he said, realizing even as he spoke that his voice sounded tight and clipped. He only hoped the Turk leader wouldn't pick up on it.
If he did notice, he wasn't saying anything. He asked if the data was safe, to which St. Andrew responded it was. For all intents and purposes, he'd fulfilled his orders as Veld had given them. St. Andrew only hoped that things would stay that way. He didn't need this kind of mental tug-of-war going when he was in the middle of a mission.
"All right," Veld said then. "I want you to take the data and get off the train."
St. Andrew started a little at that. "Why?" he blurted, only realizing too late that it was best not to question Veld about these things. Still, the sudden order had really taken him off guard. What about escorting Laylee? What about Cloud?
"There's a contingent of operatives equipped with the death magic you encountered earlier heading your way."
Crap. He meant for St. Andrew to take the disk and run, leaving Laylee and Cloud to deal with the deathbringers on their own. A hollow feeling began bubbling up inside St. Andrew's stomach. He listened as Veld continued to speak. He didn't think he'd caught everything the boss man had said, though. The only bits he remembered hearing distinctly were that those death magic guys were underlings of Fuhito's. St. Andrew cursed inside. Fuhito again. Bastard.
"Can you hear me? Respond, St. Andrew," Veld said, when the silence between them had extended to almost a full thirty seconds.
It wasn't that St. Andrew was trying to ignore what Veld was saying. As much as he hadn't wanted to hear those orders, he wanted even less to see what he was currently seeing: operatives in black jumpsuits, visors over their eyes. Fuhito's henchmen. Fuck. It didn't matter so much now if he took the disk and ran; they could easily dispatch Cloud and Laylee, then come after him. This was no longer a matter of following or not following orders.
But Cloud surprised him. Stepping in front of St. Andrew, his weapon held out, he spoke.
"I'm leaving the doctor in your hands."
There was that determination again, in his eyes and in his voice. The kid was going to march bravely off to his death. St. Andrew didn't know if Cloud thought he stood a chance of winning. He shook his head. "Cloud…"
Cloud took another step toward the operatives, who had come to a stop several metres away. Veld was yelling in St. Andrew's ear, commanding him to respond. Finally St. Andrew spoke. "Bad news, sir. Those guys you mentioned? They're here."
"Get out of there, right now!" Veld's response was immediate and brooked no argument. St. Andrew knew that a verbal ass-kicking would be the least of his problems when he got out of this, but to his mind, there was no other way. Never mind that a Turk who couldn't follow orders wasn't needed; he couldn't keep being a Turk if he didn't do this.
"I can't hear you – I think the signal here's breaking up. I'm gonna hang up," St. Andrew said, squeezing his eyes shut as he hit the 'end call' button. Ha. He'd probably be made to do something horrifying and unthinkable when he came back… but he'd deal with that later. Right now, he had to stop the kid from getting himself killed.
"Cloud," he called out to the blonde. He turned his head slightly to indicate he was listening. "Can you run?"
This made him turn around fully. "What?!" St. Andrew grabbed him by the arm, pulling him roughly back. What did he think he was doing, turning his back on the enemy?!
"We're running. Come on!" He didn't give Cloud a chance to respond. His arm still clamped on the boy's arm, he ran for all he was worth. They were going to survive this. They had to survive this. He wasn't going to be the best damned Turk of all time if he died at the hands of these lackeys.
At that thought, St. Andrew grinned. No matter how impossible the mission, the Turks will see it through. Indeed.
--
Veld was not a happy man. Putting his phone away carefully, he breathed for several counts: in through the nose, out through the mouth. By the time Tseng knocked on his door, he felt far calmer than he had when St. Andrew had hung up on him.
"Sir, we've gotten some more information from our field operatives. It turns out –" He stopped in mid-sentence, observing Veld's body language. To the casual observer, Veld was always calm and collected. It was as impossible to ruffle the Turk leader as it was to get Reno to admit his natural hair colour; still, Tseng had always been a keen observer, and he knew when his superior was agitated.
"I take it St. Andrew's update was less than satisfactory?"
Veld laughed. There was a reason he had made Tseng second-in-command. "You could say that," he said dryly.
Tseng paused for a moment. He was, Veld knew, debating whether to try and get more information, or just leave it at that. Veld sat back in his chair, his gaze trained on his subordinate. "Tell me, Tseng. Do you remember when you first started working with the Turks?" He watched Tseng's reaction shift from speculation to surprise to speculation once more: what was he getting at?
"Yes," Tseng replied at last.
"The rookies remind me of you sometimes," Veld said simply.
Tseng stared at him. Then he laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment, sir."
Veld made an amused sound. He privately hoped they would survive long enough to be become the Turks he could see them becoming one day. With the way things were with this current AVALANCHE situation, it was hard to see some days how the days ahead would measure up.
A phone rang. Veld looked over at Tseng, who took his PHS out of his pocket. Inside he sighed as Tseng's expression changed, morphing into that controlled… not panic, per se, but he was definitely agitated at what he'd heard.
"I see. Understood. I'll send someone out to look into the situation."
Tseng turned to Veld. "Rosalind hasn't reported in" he said tersely. "She didn't contact the pilot about being late for her rendezvous, and the hotel she was staying at says her last check in time was the night before the contact time."
They both knew Rosalind wasn't the type to blow off the meeting point, or be late for anything. Out of all the rookies she was the most conscientious and responsible. The only reason she could have missed her contact would have been because she'd run into an accident… or been caught.
"Who's available right now to head out to Icicle?" Veld asked.
Tseng inputted some commands into his PHS. After a while he said, "Rude, Rafe and Samantha are all on standby… Rude's the only one who hasn't just come back from a mission, though."
"Get one of them over there," Veld said. The possibility that AVALANCHE had caught up with Rosalind was there, and it gave rise to unwelcome thoughts. Veld dismissed any further thoughts on the matter; it would be no use wondering until they got Rosalind back. If it turned out AVALANCHE was behind this… his eyes narrowed.
"I want all the traitors dealt with," President Shinra growled. "I didn't want to go this far, but they leave me no choice."
"Yes sir." It was a pity that people entirely unconnected with AVALANCHE were getting involved in this, but if there was one thing President Shinra was adamant about, it was hitting his enemies where it hurt. There were very few people who didn't have either family or friends; the President's current mood meant that the shockwaves of the current situation would hit those who probably would never have dreamed of… Well. There was no point in thinking about it any further. Instead he addressed the President. "Sir, about what we spoke about the other day…"
President Shinra grunted. "A traitor within the executives? I suppose you've already taken measures."
"I have, sir." Veld paused. "In the event I do find anything –"
"Then you'll report it directly to me," President Shinra said. "I'll deal with any traitor personally." He turned to face the window. "You're dismissed, Veld."
Veld only hoped that it wouldn't come to that.
--
It was cold. That was the first thing that registered in Rosalind's mind. She really wanted nothing more than to leave this place and come back to Midgar. She'd be happy if she never had to go to Icicle again.
Rosalind tried to shift slightly to avoid a particular cold draft which was hitting her back, but it was hard; maybe the cold was seeping into her bones, making it all that more harder to move. And then there was the smell. Had her room always smelled like rusting metal and damp?
Her eyes flew open. Disoriented as she was, she noticed almost immediately that this wasn't her hotel room. Where was she?
The walls were dull coloured, made of what looked like concrete. The lower half of the wall was reinforced with metal sheeting studded into the wall. Well, that explained the cold. Rosalind shivered. She tried to move to get a better view of her surroundings. It was difficult, as her limbs were numb from cold and prolonged disuse. Eventually, she managed to sit upright.
She was in some sort of prison. How had she gotten…? Vague memories of being in her hotel room flitted through her brain. She groaned, attempting to push back the headache that was pressing against her temples. She had been in her hotel room, and then…
AVALANCHE. She'd been caught. Closing her eyes, she stifled a moan. How had they known she would be out here? The scouting mission wasn't exactly open news.
Another shiver wracked her body. With some effort, she stood up, her legs shaking. Tottering to the door of the cell, she reached out a hand. She gave the door an experimental push. Nothing. It was solid metal – it would take more than a slight nudge to get it to open. There was no handle on her end, so it clearly locked from the outside.
I was careless. Crossing her arms about herself, Rosalind took another look around her cell. There was nothing of note. There was a small window placed high enough that Rosalind couldn't possibly reach it. There was no light coming from it, which probably meant it was night. Her eyes followed the window all the way down the wall, and she shivered again when she saw the thick chains dangling from the wall. Her situation could have been worse… But not by much.
How was she going to get out of here? She didn't have her weapon, though a quick check of her pockets told her she did have her PHS and extra potions. Checking her armour, she found that they'd missed her Materia as well.
Rosalind blew a breath up, shifting her bangs. Okay, she could probably do some damage with the Materia, but not enough to get her out of here. And then she didn't know anything about this place. She had as high a chance of wandering and getting caught again as she did of getting out.
So what? Did that mean she should stay here and hope someone rescued her? Rosalind closed her eyes. She didn't know how long she'd been out. When would they realize something was wrong?
Stop this. This isn't getting you anywhere.
Sighing, she slumped back down onto the ground. Barring any solutions, she would just have to wait and see what happened next. Rescue would come for her or AVALANCHE would attempt to do what it would with her. She had no illusions about the kinds of tactics they would use; if Junon was any indication, she wouldn't exactly be treated with kid gloves.
She didn't know how long she'd been thinking when she heard it. Rosalind raised her head, perking her ears. What was that?
The sounds of a distant to-do. Frowning, she tilted her head in an attempt to get an idea of what was going on. Was that…?
A sound like a yelp, followed by a thump reached her ears. Rosalind scrambled up, then fell right back down again. Her head was really throbbing now. She grimaced. What had they done to her?
The noises were getting progressively louder. Rosalind listened from her place on the floor. There was a lot of shouting, scuffling, thumping, and it reminded Rosalind of a street brawl late at night in some of the darker parts of the slums. She seriously doubted that was the case here. Either that, or there had been a lot of money riding on that poker game.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when something banged against her door. She tried rising up again. She stumbled again, coming down on her knees. Damn! She hissed through her teeth. At this rate, the mob was going to be in here with her and she'd probably get trampled underfoot or something just as ridiculous.
Several more bangs. Rosalind's head shot up. Well, if she couldn't move, then she could at the very least prepare herself for whatever was on the other side. Setting her concentration into her Materia, she waited.
She hadn't expected the door to open with a bang so hard and loud she could swear the wall was still vibrating with aftershocks. She also hadn't been expecting to see an operative tumble right in, stiff as a board, and hit the ground with a thud. And she really hadn't expected to see Rude there in all his be-suited and be-gloved glory. Rosalind blinked. Had his head just sparkled?
"…Rude?"
The tall man nodded, cracking his knuckles. He titled his head slightly. "Are you all right?"
Rosalind nodded. Then she shook her head. "No. My legs… I can't move."
Moving quickly, he knelt down by Rosalind. "What happened?"
"I don't know. I just… can't move."
Rude nodded. He held out his arm. Rosalind felt a warm tingling spreading through her body – a general cure-all Materia. She tried standing once more. It was a lot easier this time, though her head still felt a little strange. If she made too sudden a movement, it took a moment for her vision to catch up and right itself. A concussion? She raised this possibility with Rude, who nodded.
"I brought your weapon," he said, handing her her handgun. Rosalind took it gratefully, checking it over to make sure nothing had been done to it. When she was satisfied, she looked back at Rude, who nodded once more.
"We're going. Are you ready?"
"Yes, sir."
For the third time, Rude nodded. He led the way outside. Klaxons started to blare, loud and jarring against Rosalind's head. Why hadn't that blasted thing gone off before when Rude was thumping all those AVALANCHE operatives? Were they trying to make her feel worse? Rosalind's hand flew to her temple.
"We'll clean out any AVALANCHE we encounter on the way," he said.
Rosalind nodded, hefting her weapon. Yes. And then maybe she could get something for this raging headache.
"Yes, sir."
Author's Notes: This took much longer than I anticipated. Honestly, there was so much I wanted to cram into one chapter, and I couldn't do it all. As it is, I'm choosing to end this chapter here because it's where I feel the cut is cleanest.
I'm looking forward to the next chapter. Cloud kicks some AVALANCHE arse. :)