A/N: I don't own 'Skins,' alright? Shocking, I know.
The first ones set up shop on the sidewalk just before dawn, the van parking on the opposite side of the street between two compact cars and releasing two cameramen and a reporter into the early morning chill, their hearts pounding with the excitement of a career-changing scoop. Tripods were erected, makeup double-checked, and lighting options explored as the sun began peeking through the arms of the elms and lime trees lining the quiet Bristol street. A couple out for their morning jog passed the news crew with hardly a glance, their breathing heavy as they pushed up the hill and rounded the corner; a cyclist glided down the hill a few minutes later.
The ambiguous not-quite-daylight of nautical twilight was finally beginning to seep over the neighborhood's natural canopy when two more crews eased onto the street and found their own spots in which to parallel park. More cameramen were expelled onto the pavement and the rush for each major network to establish a beachhead on the doorstep of Bristol's most recognizable Member of Parliament was in full force: before the church bells three blocks south chimed seven, at least six regional news stations and three from London were encamped upon the quiet street in suburban Bristol.
Just as the sun was officially rising, a late-arriving crew from the BBC—of all the days for the car's battery to die it had to be this one—attempted to turn onto the epicenter of that weekend's news cycle only to find it blocked off by other agencies. After finding a spot to park on the kerb in front of the aforementioned church, the crew began the ignominious task of hauling their equipment back up the gradual slope of the neighborhood's terrain.
The BBC crew was just setting up between a Welsh team that made the drive down from Cardiff and a small independent web-based news blog founded in Dorchester, just down the A37, when Katie Fitch stirred and extricated herself from Emily's bed. Rubbing furiously at her eyes as she stumbled around the bed, she retrieved her mobile from the dresser and checked the long queue of notifications awaiting her: four emails from political correspondents requesting a statement on the previous day's news reports, sixteen text messages of the same ilk, and one voicemail from Erik. Katie groaned, one palm pressed to her temple in anticipation of an impending headache, accessing her voicemail with the swipe of her thumb.
"Katie, it's Erik, and it's a bit after 5. I hope Emily's with you; her phone's off. Anyway, we still don't have anything definitive about this whole thing or where Naomi is..." Katie gradually tuned out the chief of staff as she padded over to the window and plied open two blinds with the index and middle finger of her left hand. She frowned as she watched a seemingly never-ending horde of news teams jostling for position on both sidewalks and up and down the street, their black cameras and tripods and the dishes on top of their vans obscenely marring the morning peace. "...when you wake, call me back. We'll need to make a statement at some point day. Christ, there's already a news crew setting up outside the offices. I have to go."
Rolling her eyes, the eldest Fitch deleted the message and crossed her right arm across her chest, peering as best she could between the blinds up and down the street. "I'll take your one and raise you, Erik," she muttered to herself.
"What're you doing by the window?"
Katie extracted her fingers from the blinds so quickly they snapped back in place and rustled accusingly behind her as she turned to appraise her sister. Emily was still lying on her side, the sheets and duvet reflecting a night of restless sleep around her. One hand was hidden under her pillow and her eyes squinted in the faded light of the bedroom.
"Checking out my latest batch of gentlemen callers," Katie said primly. She stepped away from the window. "Lights."
"No—Goddamn it, Katie!" Emily rolled over and shielded her eyes with her elbow as her sister shrugged and disappeared into the loo.
The last nine o'clock bell was tolling as Devlin Franks stomped grimly down the sidewalk, viciously trading elbows with anyone who attempted to block his path, and trading insults with reporters like they were old college rivals. He darted around the filming of one live report—and blatantly crossed right through another one without so much as a wave of apology. As he neared the steps of the most interesting flat in Bristol, he slid his smartphone out of his breast pocket and speed dialled a number he'd long ago forgotten if not for the wonders of technology.
"It's me; let me in?"
"Just don't bring the refuse in with you, yeah?"
He grinned and smoothly slid the phone back into the snug confines of his jacket breast pocket as he hurried up the steps leading to a white-washed door. His foot landed on the top step; he heard the tell-tale sound of a dead bolt being cycled and he darted into the flat before any of the ravenous news crews below were able to glean any sort of information about the inhabitants therein.
Katie Fitch slammed the door shut so close to his back that he felt a whoosh of air and his jacket fluttered. The dead bolt cycled once more and then she surprised him by jamming a kitchen chair underneath the door knob. He pointed at the obstruction, frowning.
"Taking no chances, not with the hyenas," Katie defended. She brushed past him as the kettle went down the hall, leaving Franks to shrug off his jacket and follow her.
"I'm one of those hyenas, you know."
She opened a cabinet, withdrawing a tea cup and a saucer and placing them on the counter. She picked up the kettle momentarily, then set it back down; Franks took the hint and set to preparing his own cup. Katie took hers to the table and spooned some sugar into hers as the reporter poured.
"Were one of those," she corrected him. Katie paused to take an experimental sip. "You've been converted."
"To what exactly?" Franks asked as he sat opposite.
His host shook her head. "Not important. What do you know?"
"Where's Emily?"
"Don't answer a question with a question," Katie retorted with a piqued eyebrow. "Have you talked to Erik? He left me a voicemail at, like, the most fucking ungodly hour."
"Where's Emily?" Franks reiterated; however, seeing the woman's eyes narrow and her fingers clench around her cup, he quickly added an addendum: "No, I haven't talked to Erik."
"Was that so hard?" Katie sipped and idly tapped at her smartphone despite not receiving any notification. "Ems is upstairs. What do you know?"
Franks shook his head. "Not right now—I'm not going through all of this twice."
Katie huffed, but pushed back from the table. "Come on, then."
She led him silently upstairs, the lack of noise as they proceed along the hall and then up the carpeted stairs seemed eerily out-of-touch with the reality lurking just beyond the barricaded front door, although Franks wondered if that was precisely the point. Katie reached the landing atop the stairs and opened the first door on her left, guiding the pair into the master bedroom. Franks swept his gaze around the room, expecting a shrouded den of despair and darkness, but instead finding the blinds on the multiple windows twisted open and a floor lamp illuminated, casting the room in a golden palette far too cheery for the previous day's news. Once again, Franks conceded to himself that such a contrast was precisely the reason for the choice.
Emily herself stood in the front of the room, shoulder brushing the molding around the front window as she gazed down at the roiling sea of scoop-hungry news sharks. Her teeth nibbled on her lower lip delicately; her foot tapped impatiently. She tensed as the two entered her sanctuary, but made no effort to acknowledge either her sister or the reporter. Her eyes remained fixed on the street. The reporter carefully made his way to the opposite side of the sill, mirroring her position and peering through the gap between blinds and glass; Katie lingered behind them, for once unsure of how to take control of the situation.
"Emily, thank you for letting me inside, and I'm sorry about them."
"I want them to go away," she whispered, brow crinkling. "They don't belong here."
"I may be well-respected, but unfortunately, not that well-respected. Anyway I can help keep the more sensational types in line, I will."
The detective glanced quickly across the muntin at Franks, meeting an ardent stare. She nodded. "Thank you."
Unable to contain herself much longer, Katie crossed her arms and cleared her throat. "So, Devlin, you said you had news?"
"Uh, a little, yeah." He frowned, turning his eyes back to the neighborhood peace-ruining maelstrom. "But I mean it: anything I can do to keep the hyenas at bay. My editor wants something tonight and I'll make it as palatable as I can, Emily. It's not a great situation."
"Have you talked to anyone over there?" Frank regarded the elder Fitch with a scathing glare; she merely rolled her eyes. "It's a valid question for the rest of the cackle."
"I spoke to several of my counterparts with the Eastern European desk—one who specializes in the Balkans specifically—and the Montenegrin police aren't being very forthcoming. Interpol is a bit more helpful."
"You know someone in Lyon?" asked Emily, straining to temper the hope in her voice.
"I know a few people," Franks shrugged, crossing his arms. "Look, it's not going to be a quick investigation. The viaduct is in the middle of nowhere and it wasn't until another train tried to cross that it was even discovered. Vic Patterson was one of the first people successfully identified."
"Why him, Dev?"
The reporter pressed his lips together firmly and looked along his shoulder deeper into the room where Katie was watching the exchange anxiously, worrying her lip almost as expertly as her younger sister. "Because the attackers were helpful enough to leave his passport, and Naomi's, in his pocket. They think the rest are at the bottom of the gorge—in the river or scattered by the winds."
"Why would they do that?" gasped Katie.
"Sending a message," Emily said bitterly. She stilled her leg's tap-tap-tap beat and pivoted to face Katie. "They want us to know they were after Vic and Naomi...and that they succeeded."
"But Naomi wasn't on the train, right?"
"No, that we're positive of, but obviously the search of the surrounding mountains and gorge will take some time."
"She's not there," stated Emily flatly. "He'll have taken her somewhere else."
"My contacts at Interpol cautioned me against making any wild assumptions, Emily—"
"And you don't think this has Osbourn Ross written all over it? Or at least his attack dog?"
"Professionally, I can't jump to any conclusions..."
"And what about privately? That's why I let you in, yeah. To speak off-the-record." Katie crossed the room and invaded Franks' personal space. "So why don't you jump to some conclusions with us or you'll be jumping into a big sea of journalistic sharks."
"Figuratively?" he asked with a look to his right, hoping to gain Emily's support; she merely shrugged.
"I wouldn't put it past her."
Katie smirked and brushed her hair back from her face. "So, conclusions?"
"I agree with Emily. Somehow they lured Naomi there, and now she's missing. I tried to pry a passenger manifest from Interpol, but they wouldn't budge."
"We're going to find her," vowed Katie as she stepped even closer. "Are you in or out?"
He held up his hands in surrender. "Goddamn, Katie, I already told you I'd do whatever I could. I'm on your side."
Satisfied, the older twin moved away from the window, allowing Franks to take several steadying breaths. He looked between his two hosts and frowned. "But she's not the only person missing."
"Somebody else from the train?" asked Katie, confused.
"No, somebody else here in Bristol, actually. And I have a feeling Emily and I will be harangued because of it as well."
"Well...Jesus Christ, just tell us who it is!" she demanded, exasperated.
"Matt Moore!" Franks nearly shouted the name into the tense air of the bedroom. He slowly dragged his hands down his face. "Sophia's brother is missing as of this morning. I'm filing the report when I leave. He won't return any calls and I dropped by, but there was nobody home—the window in the back door was broken. I think the two of us were the last to see him alive."
The mattress was lumpy. That was her first coherent thought as consciousness slowly coalesced around a pounding sensation in the area just behind her forehead and in front of her brain—if there was even enough space for a jackhammer to be inserted there and set to automatically begin trying to begin drilling through her skin. That, given the pain level, it was entirely possible was her second coherent thought.
Her third coherent thought was that she was blind.
Squeezing her eyes shut again, Naomi's panicked mind raced around that possibility and very quickly pieced together multiple other pieces of information that negated her worried assumption: the feeling of cloth on her face, a tugging sensation just behind her ears, and the slow recognition that the darkness when she opened her eyes wasn't completely pitch. Blindfolded.
Nevertheless, her overactive brain would not slow down. If she was on a bed, she was not on the train; no way she could be after running; not in the mountains, then—inside a shelter of some sort; Baze, strong arms wrapped around her as she struggled; not struggling for long; where's Vic—oh, Christ. Naomi attempted to moan in despair as she again replayed the horrific scene inside the train car, Patterson's body falling to the floor as she watched helplessly from outside.
He sacrificed himself so I would get away, and I betrayed that. The sobs materialized of their own volition, then, and Naomi tried to expel them only to find her throat incredibly dry and her voice incapable of making any noise. As she worked her jaw, she tasted fabric in her mouth and inhaled sharply. Blindfolded and gagged on a lumpy mattress—in a frigid room the size of which she could not immediately grasp. The bed itself seemed rather small, a twin perhaps? She knew she was lying on her side; attempting to roll over onto her back, Naomi encountered a sharp pull of resistance around her left wrist as her arm naturally tried to lay along her side. She was able to rest on her back, but her arm remained chicken-winged, a manacle clutching at her wrist and keeping it snugly near the metal frame of the headboard.
Carefully, Naomi tested her legs, discovering that neither seemed to be restrained or shackled. Nevertheless, as an involuntary stretch coursed through her body she struck her ankle against the metal at the foot of the bed and pain lanced upwards along her leg, mingling with the pounding of where Baze struck her head with his gun, and eliciting another stifled sob: even without her legs being restrained, Naomi knew her injured ankle was enough to prohibit her from making an expeditious escape should she be able to work her wrist out of its cuff.
She shivered at the lack of heat in her prison. How long had she been unconscious? Where had Baze taken her? Emily...oh, God, Emily had to know she was missing—unless something had happened to her as well. Naomi's mind conjured up dark, twisted nightmares of Baze and his cronies doing Ross's bidding and eliminating the treat she and Katie embodied even as they were en route to Montenegro...or maybe they'd captured Naomi first and returned to finish what they'd started in Castle Park earlier in the week? But maybe it wasn't that long since she'd been captured after all and Emily still had no idea that she was in any danger. Could she get a message out—Jesus, that hurts!
The unmistakable sound of someone struggling to insert a key into a lock scratched its way through the chilly air to Naomi's ears and she stilled out of some long-dormant instinct to freeze and hope whatever danger lurked nearby would ignore her presence. The tumblers clicked and a door creaked open on weary hinges. Multiple footfalls filled the air; their echoes gave Naomi the sense there was not much space in her cell other for anything other than the bed to which she was chained.
The sense of someone being in her personal space permeated her mind even as she closed her eyes behind the blindfold at a renewed round of jackhammering behind her forehead. The door slammed shut, the deep thud signalling the heaviness of the portal's material. Hands pressed against the sides of her head and Naomi shuddered, the feeling unexpected, even as her head was lifted off the decrepit pillow beneath it. The knot on her blindfold was undone and slowly, agonizingly so, it was pulled away from her still-closed eyes.
Naomi opened one eye slowly, squinting up into the dim light of the room: a single naked-but-underpowered bulb was anchored into a stone ceiling, its metal chain dangling in the center of the room, small beads swinging to and fro from an unseen breeze; stones and mortar cobbled together in the dark recesses of the ceiling, a series of wood planks running across the room parallel to the bed's orientation casting deep pits of shadow into the corners of the room away from the minimal light. She eased her second eye open and focused in on her visitor.
Angry eyes glared down upon her ragged form, eyebrows knit together waiting for her to make the connection. As her ice-blue irises narrowed, he knew she remembered the previous day's events and that his strike to her head hadn't caused any damage to her memory. That was important; bruises and superficial injuries were to be expected in a snatch-and-grab operation, but causing permanent damage, disability, or any sort of impediment towards successfully leveraging their captive was unacceptable. Judging by the flame of hatred consuming her eyes, Benton Baze was confident he and his men executed their roles flawlessly; nevertheless, it was best to get direct confirmation.
Without removing the rough strip of fabric prohibiting her from speaking, he leaned forward and addressed Naomi. "It's good that you're awake. Can you nod?"
Naomi glared without moving her head; instead, she slowly raised her free hand, elevating her middle finger defiantly.
"Do you know why you're here?"
Her eyes flicked from her still-raised finger back to her captor's face.
"Don't get too comfortable," he advised coldly, fingering her blindfold. "Someone will be in with food soon; I suggest you eat. It's best to have some strength before you move."
Baze leaned forward to put the blindfold back in place, but Naomi was ready. As rapidly as she was able, she closed her hand into a fist and attempted to swing it upwards at his jaw as he closed the distance. To her dismay, her 'surprise attack' proved futile and slow, his arm swatting her fist out of the way before fluidly moving straight down, thick fingers closing around her throat.
"Don't bother resisting either. You'll lose."
"Fuck you," she mumbled incoherently through the gag. She could feel the air and blood slowly being restricted from her head and glared up at him furiously.
Baze shook his head. "Such a temper." In a movement too quick for her to counter, his hand released her neck, snaked around her head, and tugged the blindfold in place. She swung her arm around, hoping to connect with his midsection, but found only empty space where he'd been hovering last. He completed tying the blindfold back in place from above the head of the bed and crossed the hard stone floor of the room.
The door thundered closed again and tears Naomi'd been containing ever since she stirred awake spilled from her eyes as she curled up into a ball on her left side. She felt like the light bulb: barely flickering, naked, and alone.
By mid-afternoon, the posse of reporters and cameramen dwindled to a half dozen local crews and one or two lesser known online-only political sites staunchly refusing to abandon their beachhead at the steps of MP Naomi Campbell's residence. Inside the residence, the living room telly was silently broadcasting the coverage of the train attack and its fallout. Nobody was watching.
The taciturn detective who also called the flat home sat on the top step of the stairs, eyes unfocused and gazing down the steps towards the foyer as if her love might suddenly reappear in the entry, transmuting through the front door and materializing at the bottom of the stairs. One elbow was crooked around the white-painted baluster, both hands clasping in front of her calves as she squeezed her knees to her chest. She'd assumed her position as staircase sentinel as Franks walked out the front door just before lunchtime—editors could not be ignored forever it seemed. It seemed as nice a spot as any to just sit and wait; moreover, for the first time in her life, Emily was unable to muster any motivation to pursue Naomi. Her motor functions felt seized by some invisible clamp and her emotions besieged by the despair of irresolution and confusion. The only response Katie was able to extract was an emphatic refusal to involve the authorities in any fashion at this point, despite repeated calls and emails attempting to establish communication with them. Emily couldn't talk to them just yet: it wasn't real.
Her mobile began ringing shrilly from somewhere below, inciting Emily to release her hold on the baluster and simply sit in anticipation on the stair; she made no movement to descend and retrieve the device. The inimitable sound of heels clattering on hardwood resonated through the entrance hall and Emily's unfocused gaze registered that her sister was standing in front of the door, an irritated tweak to her features as she stood with the mobile held tentatively in one hand.
"It says 'BLOCKED ID,' Katie announced quietly. The quiver of doubt and fear in her voice carried all the way up the stairs, however.
Emily released her grasp on her legs and motioned for the older twin to scale the stairs with the phone. It continued ringing offensively as Katie made her way up and sat down next to her sister. She handed the phone over and began rubbing large circles on her sister's back to relax her. Emily tried—and almost succeeded—to smile in thanks, but another chorus of irate synthesized notes emitted from the phone and she groaned instead.
Accepting the call and immediately placing it on speakerphone, Emily answered, "Detective Fitch."
"Hello, Detective. We've never met, and it's been a rather long time since we last spoke on the phone, but I feel as if I know you anyway." The voice was irrationally calm, almost taunting. It oozed charisma in the same way that the more scrupulous of Naomi's Parliamentary counterparts did when they introduced themselves at Party get togethers and fundraisers.
Her eyes snapping up from where they'd returned to stare down the staircase, Emily met her sister's stunned expression.
"Detective?"
"I'm..." She swallowed. "I'm here. It's you, isn't it?"
There was a disappointed tut. "You can't even deign to say my name?"
"I shouldn't give you the satisfaction you smug bastard."
Ross tutted once more. "That's no way to speak to the man who holds your fiancée's life in his hands. You threaten me at all and I just have to say a word; my men won't hesitate."
Emily's memory drifted to that night so many months earlier, negotiating for her sister's release in the parking lot of a cookie-cutter industrial office building. This was reminiscent in so many ways—and yet discernibly different, and she was not sure the differences were improvements or made this any easier.
"I want Naomi back. Now."
Ross laughed openly at her. "So demanding! You are not in a position of strength here, Ms. Fitch. You do not get to make demands. I do. Do you want to hear them?"
Emily frowned as Katie nodded furiously. "I'm not in any position to—ow!" She spasmed and held the phone aloft as the sting from Katie's punch to her shoulder abated slowly.
"Ms. Fitch? Are you there? What aren't you in a position to do? I will not under any circumstances deal with the authorities. I will talk only to you and you alone."
"Like fuck you will, tosser," growled Katie, unable to restrain herself any longer. She bit her lip as the fear underlying her retort tinged her words with a lisp she'd thought buried long ago.
"I amend my statement: I will talk to either Fitch." Both girls raised their eyebrows, surprise at his acquiescence mirrored in their brown eyes. "In fact, perhaps it is best we all meet to discuss terms."
"Just tell us now; why wait?" said Emily impatiently. "And I want to know Naomi is alive. Now."
Ross chuckled. "I'm not going to do that. But she is alive, that much I can assure you...and from the look of things quite capable of riling up anyone with whom she comes in contact."
"If we meet, I'll kill you," threatened the younger twin weakly. Panic stole the animosity from her words.
"No you won't. You want your girlfriend back alive, and you know that's not liable to happen if I'm dead. So we meet."
"Absolutely not."
"Then I might as well not dawdle...kill her."
"Wait!" shouted Katie. She snatched the phone from her sister's hand and took it off speaker. Emily stood up, aghast. Katie looked up at her, realizing too late her sister was only trying to improve her negotiating position by not giving in straight away. The illogic in taking Naomi's life at this point was only slowly becoming clear to Katie as she brought the phone up to her ear and swallowed down bile. "Tell me when and where."