A/N: I'm not entirely satisfied with this, but I wanted to update.
Also, in answer to the reviewer who asked where I get all the "smarty pants" stuff: I do watch The Big Bang Theory occasionally, but mostly I just make it up as I go along.
Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.
As the sluggish sun dispelled the grayness from the pre-dawn sky, Lane Alexander hummed softly to himself and prepared one last breakfast for his soon-to-be-departing houseguest. He would miss Gunther Stantz; true, the boy was secretive and a bit standoffish, but he was also wise beyond his years, and could talk intelligently on any subject from international macroeconomics to the NFL draft. Not to mention that Gunther was impeccably neat, never leaving so much as a scrap of trash in his room, wiping clean everything he touched with an almost maid-like thoroughness. All in all, Lane was glad he had volunteered to host the boy during his semester at Hollywood Arts.
There was still a month to go in the semester, but Gunther's mother in Heidelberg had apparently been taken seriously ill, and the boy was naturally anxious to go and see her. He was booked on a 9 A.M. flight, but Lane insisted that he not leave until he had eaten the guidance counselor's famed blueberry muffins.
Soft sounds from upstairs told Lane that the boy was packing. He ascended the staircase slowly, carefully balancing a tray of muffins, orange juice and hot coffee, then pushed open the door to the guest room with his shoulder.
"Breakfast time! Now, eat up-"
Lane stopped. A Turkish passport lay atop Gunther's suitcase. The boy snatched it and jammed it into his pocket, but it was too late – the guidance counselor had already spotted it.
"Gunther, I don't understand. What do you need that for? Aren't you going to Germany?"
Gunther's lips curled into a frown. He shook his head slowly. "Lane, Lane, Lane. I'm so sorry. I had hoped that we could part on good terms, but – well, now that's not going to be possible."
"What…what do you mean?"
"At the risk of sounding clichéd, my friend – you know too much." Gunther snapped open a tiny compartment on the side of his watch face, pulled out a length of steel wire, and lunged for Lane's neck.
The guidance counselor cried out and hurled the cup of coffee into the exchange student's face. Gunther howled in pain and stumbled, giving Lane just enough time to drop the tray and sprint downstairs.
Already the German was up again. He leapt like a gazelle and cut Lane off from the front door, forcing him to make for the back door instead.
The scrub grass gashed Lane's bare feet as he headed for the gate, which seemed, in his panic, to be a thousand miles away. Gunther's pounding footsteps were right behind him.
Lane's fingers had just touched the gate latch when cold, thin steel was drawn around his throat. Standing behind him, Gunther pulled back with remorseless strength, cutting off the flow of oxygen. Lane gasped, clawed, kicked back, but all to no avail. Blackness encroached on the edges of his vision.
The gate was kicked open, sending both Lane and Gunther sprawling backwards. The garrote came loose, and Lane sucked in precious breath.
As he lay in the dirt, staring into the purple-dyed clouds, a flurry of punches and kicks split the air behind him. He could hear the grunts and yells of two combatants – one of them Gunther, the other female. At last there was a tremendous "KIAI!", and Gunther toppled, blood gushing from his nose, next to Lane.
The guidance counselor stood, turned; smiled.
Never in his life had he been so glad to see Trina Vega.
A moment later, Robbie, Tori, Jade, Beck and Andre appeared through the gate as well. To Lane's amazement, it was Robbie – shy, gentle Robbie – who howled in rage and delivered a powerful kick to the prostrate Gunther's ribs, fracturing one of them with an audible crack. "You bastard, what have you done with Cat?"
"You don't - *cough* - don't really think that I'll - *cough* - ever tell you, do you?" sneered the exchange student.
"He kidnapped Cat?" asked an aghast Lane.
Wait a minute…that passport…
"Don't worry, kids. I think I can help point you where to go." The guidance counselor looked down at Gunther. "Oh, and just for the record? I've changed my mind. You were a terrible houseguest."
/
"Stop her! Don't let her get out!"
A burst of machine gun fire narrowly missed Cat as she dived into a wall niche for cover. She paused a moment, then ran, head down, back into the corridor, drawing angry shouts from the squadron of black-shirted goons who were pursuing her.
It was cruel. The closer she got to freedom – she could see daylight through the windows up ahead – the more thugs appeared to block her path. So far she had managed to evade them through her small size and great agility, but it was only a matter of time before she was overwhelmed by numbers.
Time to think outside the box.
Cat pressed herself into a doorway and glanced up at the ceiling. Her eyes met row upon row of sprinklers. Okay, they're obviously very worried about fire suppression here, for whatever reason. That means there's probably a fire alarm. So…
She drew a packet of Bibble from her pants pocket, stuck two pieces into her mouth, and chewed frantically until they were reduced to soggy wads, then spat them into her palm and jammed them into her ears. Gross – but it'll have to do. Now, to get their attention…
"Hey! Over here, bozos!" she cried as she stuck her head out of the doorway and waved both arms high in the air.
The goons leveled their weapons at her, and, in the span of a split second, her mind ran through their various positions and firing angles. All motion seemed to halt in her mind's eye, reduced to an intricate network of vectors and statistical probabilities, all of which pointed to one conclusion:
Wait 0.27 seconds, then – JUMP RIGHT!
She did; and, just as calculated, the spray of bullets aimed at her instead struck the nearest sprinkler head. A high-pitched alarm began to squeal throughout the complex; the lights dimmed, then flashed red.
As the soldiers winced and covered their ears, Cat, protected by her makeshift earplugs, squeezed into another doorway, pulled the cover from the keypad that served as a lock, and swapped a series of wires and circuits. The alarm increased in intensity thanks to her machinations, until it was a deafening scream that tore through the eardrums and made rational thought or movement impossible for everyone but Cat – and even she, despite her ear protection, was made dizzy. Nonetheless she managed to resume her sprint; turned a corner; found a great double door around whose edges sunlight poured in. Not even bothering with the lock this time, she thrust her tiny hands into the crack between the doors and shoved them apart with all the strength her muscles could muster, then slipped through just before they slid together again.
She blinked and raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.
She stood upon a high, rocky plateau, surrounded by low hills that were bare save for occasional patches of grass and a few stunted trees. Far below, in a valley split in two by a narrow, meandering river, goats grazed under the watchful eye of their herders.
This isn't California – this isn't even the United States.
Where in God's name am I?