Snow sends me off with only a little trepidation, which she is one hundred percent correct in feeling, because this time I don’t bother to keep in contact with my new handler.
Aaron will probably blow a gasket over me cutting off any link to immediate back up, but I can deal with his overbearing protectiveness later. To be honest, for someone who doesn’t want to be my handler or my boyfriend he can be very low-key jealous about other people getting grabby with me.
I’m in a pub in Germany, checking out a lead FISA gave me in their mission file, when shit goes sideways again, although this time it is due mostly to my own rookie level mistakes.
The strict mission parameters I was given by FISA were that I was supposed to gather any useful intelligence about the whereabouts of the stolen children. But when I pick up on a tip while listening in on some OI agent that a group of those children are being held in a shipping container nearby, I stick around and follow them down to the docks.
I’m not as careful as I should be, don’t hang back enough, blatantly ignore the need for any recon to make sure I know how many agents I’ll need to blow through to get to the children in the first place, let alone back out again unscathed. As usual, I let personal shit get in the way and twist me up until I don’t know any other direction to go in than straight-fucking-through.
I charge in without letting FISA know what I’m doing and get into a fight with what feels like half of OI’s personnel. They surround me like hyenas cornering a lion and I go down biting and clawing at any bare skin I can sink anything sharp into, but it’s not enough and there are too many of them to fend off alone, even with my superhuman abilities.
For some reason, they don’t kill me, they knock me out with OI issue tranq guns and take me prisoner instead. I don’t know if it’s because they’re aware of who I am or if they just think I’d have useful information they might be able to pry out of me.
When I’m yanked back into consciousness, it becomes immediately obvious that they have no clue who or what I am, or if they do then they don’t understand my limits, because they’ve got me tied to a chair with plastic zip ties, of all things. They might as well have stuck me to the chair with chewing gum.
They patted me down for weapons at least, taking my guns and knives and that one grenade I had packed away for a rainy day, or if I got particularly bored and wanted to hear just how loud and screechy Aaron could get, but it’s not like I need weapons to be lethal. Their second mistake is leaving me alone, tied up in a shipping container, without a single guard to sound the alarm when I break free. They haven’t even locked the door, for fucks sake.
My superhuman strength is more than a match for theplastic zip tiesand within thirty seconds of waking up, I’m loose and prowling through the docks again, searching for the children,desperately hoping I wasn’t out long enough that they’ve already sent them on their way overseas.
They must have dosed me with something pretty strong because my head feels fuzzy, my thoughts disjointed as if someone pulled them apart to examine but didn't know how to put them back together correctly.
I lean partially against the walls of the shipping containers as I move through the docks, using them to stay upright and moving at a reasonable speed. As stupid as this lot are, they’ll figure out I’m missing soon enough and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away unscathed, not without taking every single one of them down with me and abandoning the children to their fate.
It takes me far too long to locate the right shipping container, and it’s only due to my enhanced senses that I catch the sound of them sniffling and crying, their hearts beating so frantically that I can hear them jack-rabbiting through the metal walls when I really concentrate.
My ribs cry out in protest when I break the handle of the container door. They don’t feel broken, but at least a few of them must be cracked. I heal quick, but the pain in the meantime is no less vicious or debilitating. The door screeches open and I inwardly curse the rusty hinges. Depending on how close by the OI agents are, they might have heard that, and if they did then it’s almost certainly going to send them running.
Inside the container is a group of children. They’re older than the ones Aaron and I saved in that OI facility, most of them between the ages of nine and eleven. Only one of them looks to be about six years old, and from how she’s clinging to an older boy who resembles her quite starkly, I’d guess she was picked up at the same time as her brother.
Two of the oldest, a boy and girl who could both be twelve at a push and are almost certainly twins, have the smaller ones gathered around them, held close and protective. When theirterrified eyes land on me, they instinctively push themselves forward and the others back, protecting them without thought for their own safety and giving me matching looks of obstinate fury that screamback the fuck offas loud as if they’d shouted it at me.
There’s no time to play nice, and even if there was, I don’t think I have that in me to start with. Every gentle or kind thing inside me was filed down and painted over by my mother. It was her way of protecting me from the things people would use those soft, vulnerable spots to do, or to get me to do for them.
I raise my free hand in placation. “Believe it or not I’m actually affiliated with the good guys.” Well, the government anyway. “They gave me a gun and top clearance level and everything.” I look over my shoulder, but there’s no sign of any OI agents. We’re either extremely lucky or all the OI agents that were here earlier have mysteriously dropped dead from some sort of pirate plague. Fingers and toes crossed on that one.
The oldest girl wrinkles her nose at me, immediately suspicious and a little judgemental when her eyes travel to my side and note the distinct lack of either a gun or an appropriate badge. I find her utter and frank distrust unfairly charming.
“Ok,” I sigh. “This is no time for healthy scepticism, as much as I would usually support that shit. We need to get gone, like, yesterday.”
I push the door open a little wider and move out the way, gesturing for them to exit the container. After another moment of hesitation, and a meaningfully exchanged look between the two oldest kids, they herd the younger children out and seem willing to follow me to hopeful freedom.
“Stay close to me,” I tell them and wait for their nods of agreement before leading my little troupe of kidnapped children through the docks.
Since it would be straight suicide to go out through the main exit, I circle back to a damaged section of the barbed wire fence that I spotted earlier on my search for the kids, the metal links ripped aside to create a gap that’s big enough for all of them to escape through it.
In the distance, there’s the sound of quick footsteps on stone, heavy booted feet running around the docks, coming towards us. The OI agents must have realised what they’ve lost. They’ll be on us in seconds.
“Go, go, go,” I say, yanking the broken fencing aside and ushering each of the kids forward one at a time. The six year old and her brother go first, then three other children, and finally the two oldest.
Just as the oldest boy has cleared the gap, a gunshot rings out from behind me and the gravel beside my feet explodes when a bullet hits it. The children scream from the other side of the fence, their eyes widening at what I’m assuming is a pretty powerful force appearing from the shadows of the shipping containers.
“Run!” I shout at them, turning around to face off against the OI agents barrelling down on us with their guns drawn.
I don’t wait to see if the children are following my order, trusting the older ones to corral the others to a place of safety now they’re out of immediate danger.
I sprint towards the OI agents, intent on giving the children as much time to put some distance between us and them as I can. There are at least five OI agents firing at me and they definitely aren’t using tranqs anymore. Thankfully their aim is shit and that combined with my superhuman speed means none of them are able to make a headshot.
After the first bullet catches me in the torso, everything becomes a blur of torn flesh and metal and pain. The second bullet gets me in the leg, the next cutting into my shoulder. But itdoesn’t matter as long as their attention is focused on me rather than the fleeing kids.
