Chapter 17: Lourve Under Siege

Lara Croft

The Louvre

00:35

Lara's senses sharpened instantly, the world around her seeming to come into focus with newfound clarity. The enigma that lay before her had only grown more intricate, each layer of mystery peeling back to reveal another enigmatic puzzle piece. Determination welled within her, overshadowing the unease that simmered beneath the surface. She knew, with an unwavering conviction, the next stride she must take. It beckoned to her like a siren's call – the place where her dear friend had met an untimely end held the elusive answers she sought.

Gently, almost reverently, Lara lifted the painting from the cool surface of the scanner. The texture of the canvas under her fingertips was a tactile testament to the artist's skill, the brushstrokes a symphony of hues and shades that sang of artistry. She gazed upon the masterpiece, her eyes tracing the lines and contours of every figure. In this oil-captured scene, a congregation of scarlet-robed angels descended gracefully upon a serene pastoral landscape. The sun's resplendent glow crowned their forms, casting a divine halo upon their majestic descent. The celestial panorama seemed to resonate with a hallowed aura, an ethereal connection between heaven and earth that transcended the realm of the canvas.

Lara's finger danced delicately over the painted surface, a ghostly caress that bridged the gap between present and past. She sensed it—something lay beneath the surface, an unspoken narrative that had been concealed, intentionally veiled by layers of pigmented history. A hidden truth, she speculated, one far removed from the divine reverence portrayed so vividly above. A shiver coursed down her spine, a physical reaction to the intangible presence she could almost touch. The braille-like whispers of the past beckoned to her, inviting her to unravel the secrets that lay dormant.

As her fingertip brushed against the canvas, the merest hint of resistance greeted her touch. There, beneath the layers of oils, lay a buried relic. It wasn't just pigment and canvas—it was history etched into art, a testament to secrets long guarded. The Sanglyph fragment, a powerful artifact shrouded in clandestine purpose, nestled within the fibers. She imagined the uneven topography of the canvas, where the fragment lay nestled, as if it was a scar on the painting's surface.

In her mind's eye, she envisioned herself standing on the precipice of revelation, fingers outstretched like a fearless acrobat balancing between worlds. A tangible current seemed to pass from the canvas to her finger, and a phantom tingle danced along her skin. It was as if the Sanglyph fragment pulsed with a dormant energy, a malevolent spark waiting to awaken. A shudder rippled through her, the echo of a foreboding chill that she couldn't quite shake.

The Sanglyph's weight seemed to intensify in her thoughts, an anchor to a dark narrative she could only begin to fathom. With measured trepidation, she secured the painting within her backpack, the act itself feeling like the sealing of a Pandora's box. Her heart raced as she contemplated the artifact's purpose and the intentions behind its enigmatic existence. Instinct screamed within her, a primal warning that whatever design the Sanglyph harbored, it surely wasn't one borne of benevolence.

Lara found herself retracing her steps, back to the place where her friend's life had been tragically cut short. The wind whispered secrets as it rustled through the trees, tendrils of her hair fluttering like fragile banners of resolve. The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation, a palpable tension that made each footstep resonate like a heartbeat. She could hear the crunch of gravel beneath her shoes, a rhythm that underscored her determination as she approached the spot that held the key to unraveling the enigma.

Standing at the precipice of discovery, Lara's emotions mingled like colors on an artist's palette. Grief and determination, curiosity and apprehension, wove together in a complex tapestry that defined her purpose. The memory of her friend's vivacious laughter and radiant smile clashed with the stark reality of her absence. Lara's resolve deepened; she was determined to honor her friend's memory by exposing the truth that lay shrouded in shadows.

With her heart pounding like the crescendo of a suspenseful melody, Lara knelt down. The earth beneath her bore the scars of time, its history marred by both beauty and tragedy. She pressed her palms against the ground, seeking a connection to her friend's spirit. The soil felt cool and slightly damp, as if it held the secrets of a thousand stories beneath its surface. Closing her eyes, Lara allowed her thoughts to drift, envisioning her friend's presence beside her.

A whispered conversation seemed to ripple through the air, an echo of memories that lingered like a faint fragrance. "You're not alone," Lara murmured, her voice trembling as if carrying the weight of unspoken confessions. "I'll find the truth, and justice will be served. You deserve that much."

The wind sighed in response as if bearing witness to Lara's vow. She knew that this journey wasn't just about discovering the secrets behind the Sanglyph or unmasking its malevolent intentions. It was about closure, about giving her friend the peace she deserved and shedding light on the darkness that had taken her away.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the landscape, Lara's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. The world around her seemed to hold its breath, as if in anticipation of the revelations to come. The trail of breadcrumbs left by her friend's memory and the cryptic hints hidden within the Sanglyph pointed toward a truth that was both unsettling and urgent.

With a resolute sigh, Lara shouldered her backpack and turned away from the site, her determination burning brighter than ever. She knew that the path ahead wouldn't be easy, that the secrets she sought to unearth were guarded by powerful forces. But she also knew that she carried within her the spirit of her friend, an unbreakable bond that would guide her through the darkness.

"I'm coming," she whispered, her voice carrying a promise that resonated with the energy of her purpose. The night wrapped around her like a cloak, the stars above twinkling like beacons of hope. The journey was far from over, but Lara was ready to dive deeper into the mystery, to confront the unknown with courage and conviction. And with her friend's memory as her guiding light, she embarked on a quest that would redefine her destiny and reshape the very fabric of her world.


Kurtis Trent

The Louvre

00:45

Kurtis dashed up the stairs, his heart pounding like a frantic drumbeat, his breaths coming in short bursts that misted in the chill air. He rounded the corner at the top, only to be met with an unexpected obstacle. Three mercenaries prowled the echoing galleries, their heavy boots reverberating like distant thunder. Gundersen loitered just a few feet away, engrossed in his phone, a self-assured grin dancing on his lips.

Heart racing, Kurtis pressed his back against a weathered stone pillar, his fingers gripping the cool surface for support. His senses heightened, he could almost taste the tension in the air. With a calculated surge of adrenaline, he lunged forward as the first mercenary, a hulking figure with a scar across his cheek, passed by.

"Check it out," the scar-faced mercenary muttered, his voice a gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through the stone floors.

"Send your boys," Gundersen responded, his voice carrying an edge of authority.

The mercenaries split, each one moving to opposite sides of the pillar, closing in on Kurtis like predators cornering their prey. In the span of a heartbeat, Kurtis unleashed a fierce swing, his gloved fist colliding with the scar-faced man's jaw. The impact reverberated through his bones as the mercenary was thrown off-balance, crashing into the gallery wall with a resounding thud. Simultaneously, Kurtis executed a swift kick, catching the other mercenary squarely in the stomach and then slamming his boot into the man's throat. The thug wheezed and gagged, his desperate gasps a chilling symphony in the cold silence.

"Kurtis Trent, we meet again," Gundersen purred, his voice dripping with sinister amusement as he emerged from the shadows, a viper ready to strike.

"Working with the enemy, I see," Kurtis retorted, his gun trained on Gundersen's mocking face.

"Now, now. I'm just doing my job," Gundersen replied smoothly, his tone a cocktail of casual indifference and veiled malice. "My boss wants your kind eradicated. He yearns to reawaken the long-forgotten Nephilim race."

"Only to unleash them upon the world."

Gundersen's lips curled into a wry smile, a taunting spark in his eyes. "Not my concern. Immortality is the reward that beckons me."

Kurtis chuckled, a low and biting sound that hung in the frigid air, steam escaping his lips. Gundersen's face flushed crimson, a stark contrast to the pallor of the surroundings.

"Do you truly believe, you fool, that Eckhardt will deliver you immortality?" Kurtis inquired, his grip on his weapon unyielding.

The scene shifted as if the very air held its breath. Two more mercenaries emerged from shadowy alcoves, their rifles raised and trained on Kurtis-like laser sights.

Kurtis's lips curled into a knowing smile as he backed away, his eyes on the corridor that led to another set of galleries. In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of an ornate square stone etched with ancient symbols, bathed in a soft, otherworldly glow.

A surge of determination coursed through his veins, drowning out the sound of distant gunshots as the mercenaries took aim. Kurtis's hand moved with precision, and suddenly, his Chirugai was airborne, a deadly extension of his will. The steel glinted in the dim light, like a comet streaking across the night sky. The mercenaries' eyes widened in the split second before their throats were sliced open, arterial sprays painting the air in crimson arcs.

Explosions of gunpowder punctuated the air as Kurtis dodged into a narrow hallway, his steps quick and purposeful. His Chirugai, like a loyal sentinel, arced through the air once more, severing the ropes that held the glowing stone suspended in the gallery. The stone tumbled earthward with a resonant rumble, sending tremors through the floor, until it landed with a thud that echoed like an ancient heartbeat. The gallery entrance was sealed off, a barricade of history and destiny.

"Flank him, find him, and eliminate him," Gundersen's voice boomed through the rubble, an eerie chorus against the stones.

"I need to locate Miss Croft, and swiftly," Kurtis thought, the urgency of the situation driving him forward. The air was thick with the scent of age-old secrets and the tang of iron as he navigated the dimly lit corridors, each step reverberating through the ancient stone beneath his boots.


Lara Croft

The Louvre

00:55

"Enemy spotted!"

Lara's heart raced as her eyes caught sight of the first guard. The shattering glass pierced the air like a chorus of banshees, prompting her to swiftly drop to the ground, seeking refuge from the raining fragments that resembled frozen hail.

The deafening cacophony of the glass mingled with the pounding of her heart. Lara's gaze cut through the chaos, navigating a labyrinth of overturned tables and chair legs. Gripping her semi-automatic tightly, she steadied her aim and fired at the pair of kneecaps that materialized in her line of sight. The recoil barely registered as the gun barked, a muffled sound amidst the screams that echoed through the space. In that fleeting moment, she emerged from her cover, methodically placing shots with calculated precision until the two mercenaries slumped onto the floor, their lifeblood oozing out and mingling with the moonlit darkness.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting an eerie glow that turned the spilled blood into a sinister tableau.

They had met their end swiftly, casualties of the deadly dance she was forced to perform.

A surge of urgency pushed her forward. Her time within the hallowed halls of the Louvre was now limited.

Without hesitation, Lara pivoted and sprinted back down the dimly illuminated corridor, her boots resonating against the cold, hard floor. Metal stairs appeared like a lifeline, and she descended them with determined grace, her thoughts racing faster than her steps. The third gallery beckoned her, but a noxious cloud of poison gas obstructed her path. The air was thick with its noxious tendrils, casting an otherworldly green pallor over everything it touched. The tickle in her throat intensified, provoking a series of coughs that seemed to echo through the gallery.

As if drawn by her disturbance, two more mercenaries materialized through the haze. Without a second's pause, they unleashed a volley of bullets in her direction, their voices crackling through their microphones.

"We've got her!"

Lara couldn't sidestep the onslaught of bullets, but her combat-honed instincts propelled her forward. Her weapon spat defiance in the form of controlled bursts, a counterpoint to their wild barrage. One of the mercenaries crumpled, succumbing to the precise rain of bullets, while the other met the unforgiving force of her rifle's stock. His mask fractured upon impact, and he fell to his knees, a strangled cry muffled by gloved hands.

Pressing on, Lara surged past priceless artifacts and nondescript signs that blurred into a mosaic of information and confusion. A gnawing awareness clung to her, a reminder that she was leaving an unmistakable trail for her pursuers to trace.

The glass ceiling shattered above her like a starlit mosaic collapsing into chaos.

Chunks of the gallery's architecture were blasted into the floor, tracing a path that seemed to follow her every move. As she sprinted for cover, her eyes locked onto the soldiers who descended on ropes like dark angels of destruction. The world around her fractured as a stray bullet made contact with a display cabinet, shattering the glass and showering her with a cascade of sparkling shards. An exquisite Islamic blue bowl teetered on the edge of its stand before surrendering to gravity, smashing against the ground in a haze of dust and fragments.

A fragment of 12th century Syria reduced to rubble in the blink of an eye.

Lara's fury seethed, her glare directed at the marauding soldiers.

"Bastards."

Lara didn't hesitate to strip additional rounds from the fallen mercenaries, the metallic clinks of the ammunition resonating as she reloaded her weapon. Whatever these mercenaries represented, they exhibited a complete lack of reverence for the cultural treasures surrounding them.

Amidst her determination to survive, another thought insinuated itself into her consciousness: the ones orchestrating this incursion wielded a power that transcended the temporal. The fact that such well-equipped and highly skilled mercenaries had infiltrated the Louvre was a testament to the resources at their disposal.

With grim resolve, Lara slipped away from the scene, a shadow among shadows, navigating the labyrinthine corridors toward Galerie two. The passage was fraught with danger as more squads of soldiers patrolled, prompting her to retreat into the protective embrace of darkness. As the lingering traces of the gas gradually dissipated, she breathed easier, her steps echoing against the seemingly endless corridors of the Louvre.

A question echoed within her mind, a desperate plea for guidance.

"Where is the exit?"

The air in Galerie two felt comparatively pristine. Lara released a pent-up sigh of relief as she removed her mask, allowing it to dangle conveniently from her belt. Standing at the threshold of the second gallery, she paused, a lone figure in a realm of artistry and danger.

The room deviated from the others Lara had explored, a stark contrast with its low ceilings and dim lighting, achieved by the elongated display cases stretching along its expanse. Egyptian and Greek vases stood in imposing array, concealing much of what lay beyond in their intricate beauty.

Lara's pace decelerated, every footfall a calculated engagement with the environment. The atmosphere was alive with tension, a thin whistle carving through the air, like the resonance of a Damascus steel blade on a whetstone. A sudden whirl in her senses, and she spun on her heels, nearly stumbling in her high-heeled shoes.

Her gun, an extension of her intent, was drawn with fluid precision. Eyes widened in tandem with the unfolding scene, capturing the sight of a discus suspended in motion, its golden aura gradually diminishing. The muscles in her body coiled, a hair's breadth from a potentially deadly trajectory. The discus altered its course, a near miss that carried a whisper against her skin.

A fresh round of ammunition was loaded into her appropriated machine gun, her senses sweeping the room in vigilant arcs. No other threats materialized. With wary steps, she began retracing her path, retreat her only agenda.

A chilling sensation pressed against her back, a realization that stung with a hindsight too sharp to ignore.

How could I have let my guard down?

The frenzy of the hunt and evasion of adversaries had drowned her awareness of the persistent pursuer.

All this time, he's been lying in wait for me.

An unspoken inquiry hovered at the edge of her thoughts, pondering whether she should indulge in a self-inflicted tête-à-tête with the wall. Yet, she refrained, for such a request's outcome in his hands was an uncertain gamble.

Unseen, unheard, he lingered. His approach had evaded her detection, his presence unsettlingly close, proximity that stirred nerves that had rarely been so tested. The heroine of silver screens, when faced with gun-wielding threats, often unveiled ingenious methods to extricate herself from peril. The magic of editing and direction brought forth miraculous escapes, compressed into seamless cinematic sequences where heroes regained dominance, subdued their assailants, and claimed victory with effortless panache.

A derisive chuckle danced on the edge of reality. Such scenarios, however charming, held no power here. The pragmatic reality, as the world outside the celluloid curtain had it, was that a gun's muzzle nestled against her carotid artery mandated a freezing compliance. To act against this calculated calculus was to court oblivion. Despite the logical clarity of such a stance, her serenity remained elusive.

His hand brushed her shoulder, coercing her form to his. The scent of acrid perspiration mingled with the faintest notes of budget tobacco and a wisp of diesel, a testament to his recent motorbike sojourn.

And, infuriatingly, he was handsome.

His fingers traced a trajectory from her elbow down to her wrist, a gentleness likened to the presentation of a cherished offering, the stolen gun relinquished to the floor. Her pulse surged in a fervent rhythm, a relentless cadence that couldn't be tempered. It threatened to surge forth like a deluge, his touch like a crescendo, descending upon her abdomen before descending further to her thigh. His touch lingered upon her holster, relinquishing her pistol from its hiding place.

Disarmed. A cunning maneuver.

A pull on her shoulder straps, and the sagging weight of her backpack signaled its purloining. Amidst reflections on his looks and skill, her indignation flared like a beacon in the night.

He's taken the painting!

A limit had been reached, a threshold breached.

The time for celluloid mimicry had dawned.

In a fraction of a second, as he tucked the stolen artistry into his pocket, she lunged. A judo throw was executed, resolute and without frills, the force aiming to wrench his balance.

It should have been effective.

But somehow, it wasn't.

Her breath rasped as the outcome took form. Instead of a successful execution, she found herself gazing into his face, a reversal of roles as he met her eyes with a pistol poised to cradle her throat. The cold metal pressed insistently against her skin, a nonverbal admonishment.

Don't dare try that again.

Yet, his expression defied expectation. No anger, no surprise. Just an amusement sculpted on his lips, a half-smile possessing a magnetic allure. The garments that clothed him were unchanged from her earlier sighting, his untamed hair remaining an unruly testament to the frenetic events. His eyes mirrored the iridescence of Egyptian Lapis.

A pang of appreciation, potent and bewildering, added itself to the equation. Give her animated corpses, give her death-trap machinations, give her the gamut of environmental hardships. Provide thirst, provide heat, provide abrasions. But her fervent plea, vehemently echoed, had always excluded the presence of one who could outmaneuver her, who could render her powerless.

This man, this thief, had accomplished just that, imbued with a flair that bordered on humiliation, yet was undeniably enthralling.

Over the years, many challengers had arisen, mostly male, their provocations spanning intellect, physique, and philosophy. All could venture into the abysses she treaded or confront the maws of beasts unflinchingly. But victory was their elusive quarry, forever slipping from their grasp.

As if in a wakeful trance, she realized she was contemplating the allure of a man who could be connected to her friend's assailants. He tilted his head, mirroring her attempt to regain composure, recalling the lessons of restraint she had been schooled in.

But he looks like a more attractive William.

Despite the tenor of menace, there lingered no trace of the taint she had sensed when he had departed Rennes' establishment. The blue depths that engaged hers had witnessed violence but held none of the malice characteristic of the Monstrum.

He's not the killer.

However, trust remained an elusive currency, and he withdrew, distancing himself, gun aimed squarely at her.

An emptiness engulfed her, the absence of a vitality that had been sapped, leaving a chilling void. Unexpectedly, the discus-like object thrummed with energy, its radiance rekindled.

Spellbound, she could only watch as it detached from its display, a deadly gem's light in motion. It circled her like a wary creature, iridescent and precious, as if evaluating whether she was friend or foe. It darted away, swift and purposeful, seeking its possessor's hand with a magnetic pull. It fitted seamlessly into his grip, its blades retracting to render it an unassuming golden disc. His eyes mirrored its gleam, a shared gleeful glint before he winked, pivoted, and fled.

Her hesitation was fleetingly brief, but a moment was too much of a luxury. The enchantment that had held her in thrall snapped like a taut wire, and she was propelled forward, every stride a testament to desperation. She couldn't permit him to escape with the painting.

It was only when her footfalls were overpowered by a discordant symphony of reports that the truth resonated.

Bullets whizzed past her, a reminder that her weapons were abandoned.

She rushed past the glimmering enclosures, the air a mosaic of splinters. In a heart-stopping instant, she glimpsed the assailant—a mercenary—obscured by the rapid muzzle flashes of his submachine gun. Beside him, a colossus, stoic in uniform, a sentinel's eyes intent on her fleeting form.

Dread constricted her heart.

Cruelty incarnate was misplaced in the corporeal realm.

And she left them behind, sprinting onward as gunfire receded. Her breaths were labored, driven by adrenaline, as she navigated a column-lined passageway, her body brushing against damp stone, and the rain-soaked ambiance melding with the frenetic symphony of her pursuit. Her footing faltered, but momentum was her ally, carrying her forward even as her shoulder met the cold surface. Her quarry resurfaced, his presence revealed, perched atop a railing, an embodiment of casual nonchalance. A wave, a salute, the embodiment of cocksure playfulness.

Almost, she mirrored the gesture, an automatic response quashed just in time. His amusement was infectious, almost beguiling.

With an insouciant drop, he fell, plummeting as if gravity had no sway.

Who is he?

The staircase unraveled beneath her hurried steps, her view catching him standing, unruffled and poised, his gaze locking with hers as if in recognition. Two floors remained, and he initiated a sprint.

Desperation knotted her innards, her own strides hastening as she descended the stairwell, each step forging a vital connection between her and the ground below. The world was a blur, the final railing hurdled in a fervor of motion. It was then that a resounding impact struck her skull, the world a dizzying tumble, her mind fogged with disorientation.

Dammit…