A/N: (Posted: January 18, 2025) Hey, guys! Sorry for the long hiatus, but my grandpa fell and broke his hip last June, and after a series of absolutely HORRIFIC events that followed for the next four months, he ultimately wound up dying in October due to medical negligence. That's the Cliff Notes version, absolute bare bones of what happened from June to October last year. Verrrrrry long story to list all the details, so I won't bother you guys with that. I was very close with him, and needless to say, him passing fucked up my brain REAL bad. And my motivation to write went right down the toilet. And then the holidays kicked in at work, and shit was crazy from then until now so no time to write then, either. So hopefully I got my mojo back now and should be up and running again. No guarantees, but I'll try.
Shoutout to the awesome HungerGamesFan37 and nickelplated for reviewing! You rock, my friends! ;) \m/
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HungerGamesFan37 - Thanks! I'm glad you liked it :) I hope you like this one, too.
nickelplated - Thanks! Here ya go ;)
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Disclaimer: Me no own ASOUE. Or When She Says Baby. Still a loser. T_T
The Wind Beneath My Wings
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Part 2
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"Go left down the next hall," Quigley spoke into his headset, staring intensely at the screen in front of him.
It was the midnight hour, and for the past three hours, he and a few volunteers had been the eyes for another group of volunteers on a mission just as dark and dangerous as the night. The objective? Procure specific data in the enemy database in order to gain access to the enemy's major outpost on the outskirts of the city and destroy it. It was the only thing standing in the way of tipping the scales in their favor at winning the war. Failure of this mission was not an option.
"Now where?" the leader of the volunteer squad asked, he and the others looking around the corridor.
Quigley triple checked the schematics. "Right."
Obediently, the volunteers did as told, hurrying down the hall as fast as they could. Already, Quigley could feel the sweat bead up on his forehead. One slip-up and he could kiss his position of mission leader goodbye. On they pressed, each footstep of theirs pounding on the floor in sync with his heartbeat. Unbeknownst to him, however, there was a bloodlust in the air, and the squad was quick to pick up on it. When they reached the door at the end of the hallway, the four stood back-to-back in a square, keeping their wits about them, praying nothing was going to thwart their progress.
"Now what, Quigley?" the squad leader asked quietly, fearing any increase in decibel might free the demons.
Quigley took a deep breath and referred back to the schematics. "Go through that door."
One of the volunteers tried the knob. No luck. "It's locked," she said.
"Lerk, see if you can pick the lock," Quigley said.
"I'm on it," Lerk said. He wasted no time, immediately shoving his lockpick tools into the keyhole and digging around for the sweet spot.
Thirty seconds...one minute...
"C'mon," Quigley uttered under his breath, his fingers drumming a frantic cadence on the table. Any more time in that hallway and they were dead. "Once you get that lock picked, head inside," he told the volunteers. "The schematics say that's the control room."
"Um, Quagmire?" the volunteer sitting to the right of him said. "We have a problem."
"Talk to me, Bogart," Quigley said, glancing at him.
"The schematics are glitching out," Bogart said.
"Simms, see if you can get a better connection," Quigley said to the volunteer on his left.
Simms adjusted his glasses and pecked away at the keyboard in front of him. "This's the best I can do, Quagmire," he said. "I can't hack into their towers to get reception."
"Damn it," Quigley said.
"There we go. The schematics are working again," Bogart said, relieved. He looked at the map. "Oh no..."
"What?" Quigley asked.
"Get 'em outta there! There's thirty contacts on the other side!" Bogart cried. "Tell them find a way around!"
Adrenaline jumpstarting his heart, Quigley looked back at the screen and pressed the button on his headset. "Abort! Abort!" he yelled. "Thirty contacts on the other side! Find a way around!"
The volunteers stayed put, Lerk still picking away.
"What the hell?" Bogart said, puzzled. "Why aren't they moving?"
"Verlin! Get outta there!" Quigley said. "You're no match for them!"
Lerk put his picks away and picked up his gun. He made a motion to move in.
"Guys! Guys, get outta there!"
The door flung open and a whole spray of bullets filled the corridor like a swarm of angry, metallic bees.
"Nooo!" Quigley screamed, his voice cracking as he watched the volunteers go limp and flop onto the floor. Tears welled up in his eyes as their enemies carefully emerged from their cover and examined the bodies. Every breath was a struggle from that point on as he gripped the table, fighting not to go limp and fall over like his squadron. He squeezed his eyes shut, begging for this all to be a dream––a terrible, heart-wrenching nightmare.
Just then, a man strode inside the mission room. He was a little older than Quigley with short, dark hair slicked to the side dressed in a crisp brown suit and black tie. "How're they doing?" he asked, walking up to them.
Too stunned to speak, Bogart and Simms looked at Quigley. "Uh..." Quigley choked, bereft of a good explanation for the carnage that happened before his eyes.
The man looked at the screen and his eyes widened, his jaw dropping. "What the hell?!" His shock morphed quickly into a scary, seething rage that sent shivers down Bogart and Simms's spines. Simms looked away and held his head in his hands, Bogart wincing, looking ready to cry. "What happened?!"
"We lost connection, sir," Bogart said. "We tried to tell them but they couldn't––"
"I wasn't talking to you!" the man spat viciously. "Quagmire! What happened?!"
Quigley gulped. Already he began to feel lightheaded. "He's right," he squeaked. "We lost connection trying to tell them there were enemies on the other side of the door. They couldn't hear us."
The man gritted his teeth. "My sister was in that squad!" he roared, stepping forward and grabbing Quigley by the collar with both hands. His eyes bore into his, and never before had Quigley seen such vengeance, such a hunger to do the unthinkable.
"I'm so sorry, Markdale," Quigley tried feebly. "I tried."
"Not hard enough!" Markdale blubbered, his mouth beginning to quiver. "You're fired!"
"But––"
"Don't talk to me! Get out!" Markdale thrust Quigley out of his grasp.
Quigley sighed, looked at the screen one more time, then walked out of the mission room. This was it––demotion. Just what he feared. He'd worked so hard to become one of V.F.D.'s mission leaders, only to lose it to a cruel twist of fate. His face darkened, then he stormed down the hallway. It was all Simms's fault! If he would've tried harder to strengthen their connection, this wouldn't have happened! He felt his chest give his heart a hug.
No.
It was his fault.
Here he was, blaming Simms for not doing more than he was capable of. And since he was the face of the operation, he got the ax. How could they blame this all on him when he had no control over the reception? Markdale made it sound like he'd kidnapped his sister and slit her throat. He'd tried his best to get her and the other volunteers out of there. His sore throat was proof of that. It wasn't like he abandoned them, left them for dead. And the nerve for Markdale to blame this on him instead of a faulty connection...
Baring his teeth, Quigley let the wall have it. It was the only thing that wouldn't object to his hysteria. Oh, how he wished it was Markdale's face. To knock some sense into him would be a treat. His knuckles on fire, he resumed walking, shoving his hands into his sweatshirt pocket for everybody else's safety. There was only one thing that would defuse the bomb he was about to become, and he had to get to it––now.
It was a long hike back to the dorms, but after a few twists and turns, he came up to a door and swiped the spare keycard he'd been given. With a loud click!, the door unlocked and he strode inside. It was a cozy room, adequately lit for the beakers, tools, and schematics lying all over the many tables on the back wall next to the big four-poster bed. The atmosphere was warm, inviting, welcoming him with open arms to forget all his troubles with the outside world. However, there was a problem with this slice of heaven.
The defuser was nowhere in sight.
He sighed mournfully. He'd come all this way for nothing. Nothing but a reminder that he was to suffer this alone.
"Quigley?" a voice hollered.
His eyes widened, his ears perking up. She was here! His heart leaped, thankful that he didn't have to carry this weight by himself.
Just then, out emerged a girl his age from the kitchen, holding a glass of ice water. She was a dark angel, dressed in a beautiful black dress with fishnet sleeves and stockings. Her long brown hair was tied up in her trusty, black, satin ribbon, and on her forehead was a pair of black goggles. No doubt he'd caught her in the middle of another miracle. When her eyes met his, her face lit up.
"Hey, Vi," Quigley said with a relieved smile. "What're you doing up so late?"
"Oh, y'know...um, I had another idea in my head and it wouldn't let me wait until morning," Violet said, looking at the mess on the workbenches behind her. She took a long drink and set the glass down on whatever clear spot she could find. "What're you doing back so early?"
Quigley's mouth went dry, his blood pumping like a freight train again. But could she stop it before it went off the tracks?
"Quig?" Violet's smile went south.
What she couldn't see, however, was that Quigley's hands had balled into tight, ruthless fists, and he was ready for round two. There was so much red in sight that he couldn't form a thought. All he could do was shake his head. "It's all Markdale's fault," he growled finally, just loud enough for her to hear.
"What's Markdale's fault?" Violet asked.
"They're dead, Violet!" Quigley snapped. "That's why I'm back so early!"
Violet flinched at his hostility, but remained calm. "The volunteers on the mission?"
"Yes!" Quigley looked away, trying to rein in the beast.
"What happened?"
Great. Tearing open the wound he just sewn up. Way to go, Violet. Well, nothing left to do but spill it. "Everything was going great until they got to their control room. I told them to go inside, and as they were picking the lock, Bogart told me thirty contacts had just shown up on the radar. I tried to tell them to get out of there, but we lost connection and they couldn't hear me. So they picked the lock and went inside, only to have the guys shoot them. Then Markdale walked in and asked how it was going, and I tried to tell him what happened, but he wouldn't listen to me. He blamed me for the faulty connection and he fired me. I got demoted. And I'm sure the higher-ups are gonna hear about this."
Violet's face softened. "I'm so sorry, Quigley."
"It's all the connection's fault!" Quigley yelled, then swung his leg as hard as he could and kicked the leg of the bed. "I didn't do anything! I tried!" Already, he could feel the tears clouding his vision.
Violet looked down at the floor for a minute, soaking in every word of the tragedy, then she walked up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I'm so sorry. It's not your fault."
Quigley pulled her in more, hoping she wouldn't notice. "He won't listen to me!"
"No...but the higher-ups will. I'll make sure they do."
Quigley stepped back to look at her. "You're gonna pull the Baudelaire card on them?"
Violet smiled. "It's always in my deck."
Quigley's frown dissipated. "But what about Markdale? He's tight with the higher-ups."
"Yeah. But he's no match for the Baudelaire card." There was a pause. "I'll tell you what. I'll go with you if they want to meet with you. I know you, Quigley. You'd never let anything like that happen just because."
Quigley smiled. Where would he be without her? "Thanks, Violet."
"Anything for you." They got lost in each other's embrace again, this time for longer. Against time's wishes, it stood still, reminding it that it had no control over their love. If they wanted the world to stand still, it'll be done. "Now c'mon. Help me with this invention so we can go to bed."
"Anything for you," Quigley said with a wink, and they walked over to the main table, Violet pulling her goggles down over her eyes. There may not be an invention to erase what happened, but there was an invention that could solve the world's problems.
Each other.