#kid blink was threatened and had a loaded gun shoved down his throat

[blinkinbrothershark]

Things In Newsies Live I Think About A Lot #2

During 'Carrying The Banner' you can see the newsies jumping around, playing with eachother etc, etc. One of my favourite examples was that if you look in the background, you can see a line of newsies all chasing after eachother before they all move towards the front of the stage to dance.

(I know this isn't the greatest picture of it, but it'll have to do.)

I'm not sure why this has stuck with me as long as it has, but something about this specific part is just so memorable to me.

I don't really know why, but this scene in particular has always sort of been a pretty big reminder at how young the newsies truly were. Like, this is a fairly fast paced scene with plently of movement and energy, and who do you normally associate with high levels of energy? Children.

And in life the majority of these newsies would have been 10-13 years of age. Kid Blink (strike leader and inspiration for Jack Kelly in the musical) was only ~16 years old, and he would have been a lot older than many other newsboys and newgirls in his time.

This might be a strange take on the scene, but it has been gnawing on the inside of my brain for ages, so now you all get to hear about it too.

[jinmukangwrites]

@damianwayneweek Day 1 (6-13): Truth serum | Damian Wayne Protection Squad™ | Best friends to lovers

Note: Rushed. I'm sure it's still the 13th somewhere.

Warnings: kidnapping, nonconsensual drugging, needles.

-o-o-o-o-

Dick wakes to the taste of blood on his tongue.

Thankfully, after slowly moving his tongue around, it's just because he bit the inside of his cheek sometime between when he was knocked out and when he woke up. His head pounds like a war-drum with his heart as he tries to get ahold of his situation. Without opening his eyes, he assess his arms are restrained behind his back and he's sitting on an uncomfortable metal chair. His legs are also tied to the chair, keeping him from running.

The suit he wears feels suffocating, proof that—once again—him wearing Batman's cowl isn't some sort of sick joke. However, his shoulders are a bit lighter suggesting his cape has been taken. Not that he'll mourn it.

His cowl is on. He silently curses himself for not checking that first. It would be the first thing Bruce checked.

He always prioritized the identity. The mission. Secrecy before safety, Gotham before everything else. Not injuries, not friends, not family, partners-

Dick's eyes fly open, reminding him of the real thing he should have checked for first.

"Robin," he gasps out loud, looking wildly around the room and tugging on the ropes holding his back to the chair.

The room is dark and small, the walls made of cinder bricks that have water mold where it connects to the cement floor. In front of him is a metal table with a black, palm sized box placed on top. Dick ignores that for now and looks to his side, only relaxing when he finds Damian to his right, tied similarly to another chair with his chin to his chest. Only unconscious, Dick notes as he watches his stomach rise and fall.

However, anxiety flutters in his gut when he sees there's a dried trail of blood running down the side of his head.

"Robin," he tries again, knowing at the back of his head that Bruce would be telling him to be quiet. Check for cameras. Look for an escape route. Don't let them know you're awake until you have a plan-

Dick shakes his head. Damian could have a concussion, and that takes priority. Dick could have one as well, considering how badly his head hurts, but Damian is only ten years old and Dick knows better than anyone the lingering effects injuries could have when you're a child.

He presses his feet to the ground and pushes, attempting to slide closer to his protege. He does nothing more than jolt in place. There's not enough leverage.

However, it seems the sound of the metal scraping against the ground is enough to wake up the boy. He comes to with a small groan and a pain laced crease between his brow.

"Robin," Dick repeats a third time. He can do nothing but sit as Damian blinks slowly behind his mask; his shoulders tensing as he too notices the restraints.

Damian opens his mouth, but before any words could leave there's a loud clang. The door in front of Dick and Damian, on the other side of the table, swings open.

In walks three men; two are unfamiliar, but the third Dick recognizes from the case files he and Damian got from Gordon about a week ago. Jonas Gibbs. Known arms dealer and smuggler. He's made his moves in Gotham these past few weeks, getting the police and public nervous about shootings with illegal guns. Batman and Robin had finally pinned down the date, time, and location of his next shipment and intended to take him down then, but he was smart and had hired help from various mercenaries that Dick could confidently bet used to be in the military before they were dishonorably discharged.

The way they moved, worked, and attacked was too strategic and planned. It was only a matter of time before one got a lucky hit on Damian; a blow with the butt of their rifle across the kid's forehead. The barrel of the rifle pointed down at Damian's unconscious body was all it took for Dick to raise his hands in surrender.

And now they're here, in some damp old room. Tied to chairs. A table placed in front of them with a mysterious box set on top of it.

"Perfect timing," Gibbs says, grinning. The two other men, clearly mercs, stand on either side of him as he drags up a chair and sits on the other side of the table. "I was almost afraid we'd have to dump water to get you up."

"What do you want?" Dick growls. He must want something. He hasn't taken off the cowl… or at least he hasn't tried to get through the various traps to pull it off. It means he must need something that an identity reveal wouldn't give him.

"I'm glad you asked, Batman," Gibbs says, a grin spreading on his face. He looks to one of his goons and they immediately pull a small camera out from a bag they had around their shoulder. He points it at Dick.

Dick gets a bad feeling about all of this.

"I want you to tell your real name for the camera."

Dick glares. "Are you serious?"

"Very. One of my men has second degree burns thanks to that cowl of yours electrifying him. So, I decided I'll let you go without any more harm. You tell me your names, and I'll let you go. Won't even show the video to anyone. Well," he smirkes, "unless you get in my way."

Dick clenches his jaw. Besides him, Damian mumbles something.

"I'm going to give you to the count of three," Gibbs says, unphased. "Otherwise it will get unpleasant."

His eyes drift to the black box, signifying it's mysterious importance. Dick doesn't let it scare him. He's not going to let this low life criminal blackmail him... put him and his family in danger. He'll take whatever will be thrown at him until he can work out a way to escape.

Gibbs counts down, and he reaches zero uninterrupted.

"Well," Gibbs says, unsurprised. "The hard way then. Gag him."

The grunts move like clockwork, and before Dick knows it his face is being grabbed and held in place while the other shoves a rag into his mouth and wraps a layer of tape around his face to hold it there.

"Batman..." he hears Damian mumble as the grunts back up. He sounds out of it. In pain. Dick can only hope that the hit he took to his head isn't too serious.

Gibbs retakes his attention, however, when he reaches forward and presses a hatch on the side of the black box, flicking it open on spring-loaded hinges. What's inside makes Dick's stomach drop. A needle and a glass vial filled with a yellow tinted liquid lays neatly inside. One of the grunts lifts the needle and the vial to begin filling it up.

"Do you know what this is?" Gibbs asks as the liquid fills the syringe. "I've yet to test it on anyone, but word is from the man I bought it from... It forces the truth out of you." The grunts finishes filling the syringe and flicks the bubbles. "Truth serum."

Dick has no doubt that the serum will work. He only wonders why he's threatening with it while he's gagged.

When the grunt walks around the table to Damian, he doesn't wonder anymore.

He can only tug on his restraints as the grunt grabs Damian's arm to aim the needle. Damian, for his effort, attempts to pull away, but the weakness of his head injury and his restraints do nothing to stop the needle from entering the inside of his elbow.

"You could have done this the easy way, Batman," Gibbs says. Dick watches as the syringe is pressed down, pushing the liquid into Damian's body. "I never like getting children involved."

Damian squeezes his jaw shut and turns his head away from the needle in his arm. It only takes a moment before the grunt pulls the empty syringe out before returning to standing besides his leader. A bead of blood appears where the needle left Damian's skin, but the boy doesn't move.

The air feels solid. Dick can hardly breathe as he tries to conceal his panic. He wants nothing more than to get out of these restraints and punch Gibbs and his men into next year, but he can't reach anything useful to do so. All he can do is watch Damian sit stock still as drugs spread through his veins.

A minute passes as Gibbs sits there in smug silence. Then, when a few more moments pass, he speaks.

"Robin," he says. Damian flinches, but doesn't look his way. His jaw still clenched. The goon with the camera points it right at Damian. "Why don't we start with something easy? What's your favorite animal?"

Damian curls his fingers behind his back and keeps his jaw grinding shut.

"Tight lipped huh?" Gibbs chuckles. He doesn't look surprised. Or worried. "Don't worry, I was assured that once it's fully in your system, it will hurt more to say nothing. What's your favorite animal, Robin?"

Damian says nothing, but he looks ridged. Tense.

"You look uncomfortable, Robin. Do you feel it in your head? I promise it will get better when you stop resisting. Let's try something different while we wait. Are you from Gotham?"

Damian's knuckles must be white under his gloves.

"How about your favorite color? Is it blue?"

Damian breathes a shaky breath through his nose, and Dick's heart breaks. He works harder to find a weakness in his restraints.

"My, your resilience is admirable. Were you trained on this?" Gibbs asks. Damian remains stubborn, but Gibbs still doesn't look worried. "Who were you trained by?"

"The best," Damian whimpers, cutting himself off with a growl and shutting his jaw. Gibbs smiles.

"What's your favorite animal?"

Damian shakes his head, a frustrated cry caught in his throat.

This continues, Gibbs finding victory in the one slip and pressing with everything he's got. Dick doesn't know how long Damian can last like this, and he doesn't want to find out. With every passing second, Dick knows it's only a matter of time before Damian's lips loosen. No amount of training can beat a good concussion and drugs designed to make your lips loose.

"What grade are you? Do you have any friends?"

After each question, Dick can see more and more discomfort in Damian's position. He's beginning to fidget and whimper and Dick's... Dick's had enough.

"What's your favorite color, Robin?"

"Green," Damian says with strangled gasp, sounding horrified with himself.

Gibbs smirks like a predator, knowing he's finally won.

"What's your real name?"

Yeah. Dick's had enough. With a hard tug, the ropes around his wrists finally snap against where he's been rubbing at them with his gauntlets. Gibbs and his men can barely react before Dick's upon them, cutting away the rest of the ropes with a batarang from his belt. He makes quick work of them in their shock, knocking them out and leaving them on the floor in unconscious piles.

He almost bends to put cable ties on their arms and legs, but he hears a tight whimper behind him. The moment after, he's rushing over to Damian to undo the ropes.

"Are you okay?" Dick asks, cutting through the bonds.

Damian shakes his head. Dick almost kicks himself.

"It's okay," he quickly says. "No one can hear. Let it out."

He's almost afraid Damian will force himself to remain silent, but to his relief and heartache, Damian opens his mouth and lets out a heaving sob. "It hurts- it hurts-"

Dick finally undoes the ropes, then he pulls his kid in close to his chest. "Get it out," he soothes, rubbing Damian's back.

"Dogs-" Damian starts, dissolving into quick rambling breaths. Every question he had been asked begins to be answered. Dick holds him close and lets him get it out with his tears. Silently, he sends a message to Gordon to pick up Gibbs and his men, then he messages Alfred to get the med-bay and lab ready. Soon enough, Damian is silent except for pain laced gasps, he holds tight to Dick's chest as Dick lifts him up and stuffs the vial with extra serum into his belt.

"I got you," he says as Damian continues to cry all the way to the batmobile. "I got you."

[scaryscarecrows]

I'd Crawl on Broken Glass to be the One That Laughs Last

Gotham’s gone straight to Hell in a handbasket. Scarecrow’s dead, which is no loss, but Bruce is missing, Arkham blew up for reasons unknown, and the Arkham Knight’s Militia is still in control. Oh, sure, there’s a fair chunk of them in lockup, but they’ve been getting steadily more riled as the days wear on (three days since the Asylum, their boss has to be dead, who’s in charge now?), and the tanks are still running patrols, the bombs are still in the road, and there are checkpoints and watchtowers everywhere.

Jim thinks they’re waiting for something. There’s been no assault, not like he thought there might be. The street thugs and any uncaptured Rogues are still allowed to run wild, though the watchtowers have been spotted taking shots at something big flying around out there. Honestly, they’re even leaving the police alone, for the most part...but they will still shoot at the cars if they get too close. It’s like they’re on babysitting duty or something until the Knight gets back. It’s unsettling.

He’s out doing a little exploration-he doubts they’ve killed Batman, or they’d be gone, but Bruce still isn’t around-when something drops onto the roof of his car. He hits the brakes, tires screeching, and narrowly avoids sliding into a tank crossing the road.

Breathe.

Jim has no time to go for his gun before the driver’s side door gets ripped open by what Jim can only describe as the Hulk. The man outside is only a little smaller than Bane*. There’s a rocket launcher on his back and Jim’s sure he’s not the one that landed on the car, because the car would be a pancake.

He’s proven right a second later when the polar opposite of the giant jumps down. That said, this guy might be tiny, but he moves like he knows half a dozen ways to kill you. The cherry on the disaster sundae? Both of them are wearing army fatigues.

Militia. Shit.

“Boys,” he says, already planning on how to get that rocket launcher from the big one, “don’t be stupid.”

The little one doesn’t say anything. The big one laughs and before Jim can move, he’s been pulled out of the car.

“Boss wants to see ya.”

So they have a boss. Who. Who is it? One of their own? Riddler? Penguin? Goddamn Deathstroke? Who is his new problem?

“No.”

“Sorry.” The man does sound mostly sorry. “Not really askin’. C’mon.”

Jim tries to slam his elbow into the man’s collarbone. He doesn’t even really get to move before the little guy grabs his arm and wrenches it behind his back. Not hard enough to dislocate it, but hard enough to be a warning.

“We don’t want to have to hurt you, Commissioner,” the big man says. “We’re just picking you up.”

“Go to Hell.”

A gun presses against his back. Fine. He’ll go. But he won’t like it.

* * *

He’s disarmed, bundled into an APC, and blindfolded. After way too many sharp turns and double-backs, he’s...somewhere in the underside of the city. He’s thinking over near Drescher.

Wherever it is, he’s pulled out of the APC, taken inside somewhere, and handed off to new hands. When the blindfold comes off, his kidnappers are nowhere to be seen.

The men in charge of him now (and only for now, give him time…) are less...unnerving...than the other two. One is wearing the white uniform of a medic, and the other is having a snack. Cashews? Cashews.

The medic is a man on a mission. Jim doesn’t even manage to get out a, ‘you’ll be sorry’ before the man’s turning on his heel, jaw working furiously, and snapping, “Come on.”

“Where are we going.”

“Boss wants to see you, won’t listen to reason. This way.”

He stalks off and the snacker chuckles.

“Cashew?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” They follow the medic down a crumbling hallway. “They didn’t scare you too much, did they?”

“What’s with the good-cop-bad-cop routine?” he demands. “Is your friend up there gonna come back and threaten to carve my face off?”

The man just laughs.

“Probably, but he does that to everyone.”

“Sometime today!”

Huh.

Jim thinks they might be in the old mall. Scarecrow had been driving that way when something had happened, and, well, if Jim were going to have an evil base of operations, this would be a good one. Lot of ways in and out, nobody ever comes down here anymore-too dangerous-and it’s big, big enough to hold tanks and soldiers and whatever else these boys have. When they round a corner, he sees a familiar logo and decides that yes, that’s where they are. Hm.

They round another corner and end up in the back of the building. Jim’s not sure what this was, but there’s a corridor lined with doors. The medic stops in front of one and turns, hands clasped behind his back.

“Twenty minutes and no more,” he snarls at Jim. “You’re lucky you get that many minutes. You try anything, you might live to regret it. Might. You tire him out, out you go, I don’t care if it’s been two minutes. Don’t touch shit, don’t knock shit down, don’t--”

“I think he’s got the picture,” his other escort soothes. “Don’t terrorize him.”

“Humph. With the amount of work I had to put in to keep his dumb ass alive, I’m entitled to terrorize people.”

“Still.”

“And I’ll tell you something else. You lay a finger, one solitary finger on him, you so much as breathe too hard--”

“There won’t be anything left to bury,” the other man says, smiles with all his teeth. “Here you go, Commissioner.”

“Twenty. Minutes.”

And then he’s shoved into a room with--and good God, how--the Arkham Knight.

The Knight is lying in bed. He looks the worse for wear, but Jim can’t quite muster up pity for him. This...this is his fault. Gotham, Bruce, Barbara…

He swallows down the rage. Not because it’s the right thing to do, but because the Knight’s not alone. Jim supposes they wouldn’t just leave him unattended, not with those injuries, but still.

The Knight doesn’t seem to notice Jim. He’s certainly not looking at him. He’s looking at the laptop the other man has. Right now, at this exact second, he looks like a sick kid, wan and tired, eyes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake. But he’s not. Robin or not, he’s...the Knight’s not that boy anymore. Robin wouldn’t have done this, any of this. Robin’s dead.

“Sir.” The other man here isn’t wearing a uniform, he’s wearing jeans and a raggedy flannel that hangs open over some sort of band shirt. But his bearing is still that of a soldier’s, and the rifle leaning against the wall by his chair is top-of-the-line. “Gordon’s here.”

“Hrm?”

“Remember? You wanted to see him.” The Knight blinks a few times, heavy and confused, and tries to lever himself up before his companion reaches over to pin his shoulder. “Don’t do that.”

More confused silence. Now that he’s moved his head, Jim can see his pupils are blown wide. That’s not a surprise. He’s pretty sure he was in Arkham when it came down, and he hadn’t looked well before that.

Serves him right, he thinks, remembering the cuts on Barbara’s cheeks and chin. Serves the bastard right.

He keeps his mouth shut. The laptop has been closed and set aside, and the rifle is now in its owner’s lap. It’s casual enough, but the threat’s there all the same: you’ll go through me to get to him.

He wonders, a bit, what drives these men. He doesn’t really care, but he wonders a little all the same. Even the ones in the cells have been resolute that ‘the boss’ will get them out, that he’s got everything in hand, just you wait and see.

...in their defense, Jim had thought he had to be dead, and yet here he is. So.

“S’right,” the Knight finally breathes. He sounds terrible, and Jim suddenly matches the purple swelling on his throat to handprints. That scares him. Not out of pity or sympathy, but because what little he’s seen of the man says he can handle himself. Whoever did that… “S’right.”

“You up for it?”

He’d better be. Jim was kidnapped off the street for this.

“Yes.” Good. “Glad to see you’re unharmed.”

No thanks to you, Jim doesn’t snap, resolutely ignores the memory of the Knight holding up his hands and telling Scarecrow, voice painfully earnest, to take him and let Jim and his men and Robin leave in one piece. He settles for a curt nod, can’t quite muster up a, wish I could say the same.

The Knight pulls in a painful-sounding breath and drops his head to the side.

“Bring up the footage for Commissioner Gordon, would you?”

“Yessir.” The laptop returns, balanced delicately over the rifle. Jim doesn’t know if he wants to know what’s going on. “Hang on...give it a sec to load…”

The Knight moves and visibly bites back a wince, but the new angle means that Jim can see the full extent of the bruising on his neck.

“There we go--you okay, boss?”

“Ribs,” he breathes. “They don’t like it when people zipline into them.”

What.

“Need me to call--”

“No.” He swallows hard and beckons Jim closer. “M’fine. Just sore. And stiff.” He clears his throat, grimacing. “You worry too much.”

“I worry exactly the right amount.”

“M’just not used to being still this long--”

“Deal,” his friend says sharply. The Knight just grins, but that annoys the other guy. “Did you miss the flatline bit?”

“Technically?”

“I--never mind.” He makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “Never mind...okay, all set.”

He turns the laptop around and Jim hesitates before perching on the very edge of the bed. Nothing terrible happens to him.

“This is footage from my helmet. How it kept going after that level of trauma, I’ll never know, but my IT department managed to recover it remotely.”

The footage picks up in a dark area, abandoned sewer network or something, probably, and it’s glitchy and stuttery.

Bruce has been caught on camera before, but not like this. This is...savage, animalistic. He comes out of nowhere, dodging gunfire and seemingly oblivious to the shouts of surprise, and moves in via a flying kick to the camera itself, which goes white and static-y for a second. A few of them come up behind him and suffer backhands and powerful kicks for their troubles, and then Bruce fills up the frame, shoulders positioned like he’s got his arms out and...and...

He looks at the Knight, looks at the bruises around his neck, and looks back at the screen in time to see Bruce going down and being dragged backwards.

“He do this to you?”

The look the man gives him is so reminiscent of the little boy Jim remembers that it makes his head spin. It screams, I know you’re not really that stupid...right?

“Well, I didn’t do it to myself.”

“--okay, sir, I’m just gonna…”

The helmet moves and Jim spots the medic from earlier before it gets set on the ground, facing Bruce. Bruce is chained to a pipe, seemingly unconscious.

“Don’t talk, just nod. Can you breathe okay?”

There’s an obvious cut--they don’t want to share it all, apparently--and then Bruce stirs and starts...giggling. Jim knows that giggle.

“What the hell.”

The Knight shudders and burrows under his blankets.

“It’s complicated. We’re reasonably sure he’s been eliminated, or at the very least contained, but--” A hand moves, presumably indicating himself. “I made it out. He might have, too.”

His friend closes his laptop and sets it aside.

“We’ve got teams sweeping Arkham’s grounds to the best of our ability,” he says. “Unfortunately, we are not a rescue team and as such are not fully equipped to handle the more unstable areas. That said, given the police department’s...track record...we would very much prefer that your men stay out of our way until we either find the individual formerly known as the Batman, or definitively confirm his demise. We’re hoping that at the very least, any injuries he may have sustained slowed him down, but we can’t prove that, given the lack of video footage for the incident.”

“It’s our understanding that Batman has, at least for the time being, lost his fight against the effects of J.” The Knight swallows. “Of Joker’s blood. I attempted to contain him--”

“Contain, my ass,” his friend grumbles. The Knight ignores him.

“I attempted to contain him,” he says again, “via...ah…”

“He blew up the goddamn asylum with himself and Batman inside,” comes the sharp interjection. “In case you managed to miss that.”

Jim had not managed to miss that, thank you very much.

“I noticed,” he says dryly. The Knight huffs a painful-sounding laugh and falls silent.

There’s. There’s a lot Jim wants to say. The Knight was Robin, and Joker killed him (and made sure they all knew it, that tape, good God, he’d sent it to everyone and Jim remembers Dove bursting into tears when she tried to tell him), but he’s not dead now, and look at what he’s done.

Much as he’d like to demand answers--or at least bring half of that up--he won’t. He doubts the man with the laptop will react well; now that he really looks, the man’s tense, clearly poised to move if he has to.

Jim can probably take him. He absolutely can’t take the others that will come at the commotion.

There’s a small dinging sound, and silence, and then an urgent, “Sir. Sir.”

“Hrm?”

“We got something.”

The Knight blinks a few times before half-surging up and demanding, “Let’s go, let’s go, then, help me up--”

“Chair or Trent?”

“Neither--”

“Chair or Trent.”

“Chair,” he grumbles after a second. “But I can walk on my own--”

“Yeah, but if the doc sees you, he’ll be mad. Here it is.”

Jim moves, semi-prepared to offer to help but not really wanting to, but they must have a system, because the Knight’s in the chair with a blanket in short order.

“I feel like a cheap Bond villain,” he’s complaining now. “One that rolls down a ramp into an electrified pool or something.”

“Maybe next time, you’ll consider your life choices, sir.”

“They weren’t supposed to come back to haunt me!”

“I know, sir.”

“Christ...what do we have.”

Should he…? Sure, apparently.

What a day. He needs a drink. A good strong one.

“My understanding is it’s better seen than explained, sir. No body, I don’t think.”

“Fantastic...the bastard’ll survive anything.”

Jim privately thinks the same applies to him, but he doesn’t share that thought. He doubts it will go over well.

The computer room isn’t crammed full of people. There’s one guy on the monitors and another one-one of the ones from before, actually, the one with the cashews-lounging in a chair next to him, drinking a Coke.

“What’s going on, you said something turned up--” He doesn’t quite hide a shiver, but when the other people in the room zero in on him, he shakes his head and insists, “M’fine.”

“Boss, I can link this to a laptop if you’re s’posed to be in bed--”

“M’fine. Pull up the footage.”

“You’re not gonna like it,” monitor-guy says, spinning around and wheeling over to make room. “Looks like he got out, same as you.”

“Seriously?”

“Would I joke when it mattered, sir? Here, look. See this?” He makes the screen bigger. “That look familiar to you?”

It certainly looks familiar to Jim. Bruce’s cowl is difficult to mistake, and there it is, crumpled in the rubble. It’s singed, and one of the ears is broken, but it is Bruce’s cowl.

“Damn,” the Knight breathes, and...Jim doesn’t like admitting it, not after tonight, but...he looks so young. A scared little boy, that’s all. “That’s not good.”

“What do we do, sir?”

“We don’t even know for sure if he’s out.” The Knight’s friend leans over the chair to get a better look at the monitor. “Maybe he tried getting out and died, we don’t--”

“I made it out,” the Knight says quietly.

There’s a wave of annoyed grumbling that includes at least one, ‘self-sacrificing dumbass’ and a, ‘in spite of your best efforts’. Jim has to wonder about that one. He can’t muster up that much sympathy, but he does wonder.

The Knight just sighs and adjusts his blanket around his shoulders.

“Fair. Anyways, seeing as I found a way out, it’s not unlikely that he’s done the same, barring the. The possibility of an instant death. I suspect we wound up in a pocket, though, so.”

“You didn’t notice anything on your way out?” Jim demands. “Was he right with you?”

“I was--”

“Concussed and bleeding to death,” a new voice snaps. “And in no shape to be walking, let alone note-taking. What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

“Briefing the--”

“Literally anybody else can do that.” The angry voice belongs to the medic from before. “You don’t seem to understand what ‘flatline’ means, sir, or maybe you’ve just got a death wish, but tough fucking titty, said the kitty, you’re not dying on my watch. Say bye-bye to the commissioner, you’re going back to bed and staying there or on God, I’ll put you in a coma and keep you there until you don’t have so much as a bruise. Do I make myself clear?”

Jim expects argument. None of the Robins ever let Batman boss them around to that extent, and he knows damn well that if he’d backtalked his superiors like that, he’d be in, frankly, deep shit. But the Knight just sighs.

“He’s been here long enough, anyway.” Long enough for what? “Keep your men out of our way, Commissioner. No offense, but Batman existed for a reason. You can’t handle him.”

Jim bristles.

“Can’t handle--”

“You know it’s true,” he snaps, and straightens up, turns to the man with the cashews. “Call everyone back.” All of a sudden that’s no longer a little boy playing Soldiers. That’s the man that crippled Gotham within hours. “I want everyone off the streets and back at base, now. Do not engage under any circumstances.”

“Yessir.”

“Get into the street cameras,” he continues. “If a rat comes out of a sewer, I want to see it. I want whatever drones we have left out and searching, but leave the car alone. That hasn’t worked so far and I’m not losing more--”

He must breathe wrong, because he suddenly starts coughing, harsh, violent whoops from down in his chest.

“Get him back to bed,” the medic orders once the coughs cease. “Or he’ll be Snow White and believe you me, nobody is getting in here to kiss him awake.”

“Jones--”

“We can handle this, sir. We’ll let you know if something comes up.”

“But--”

“You trained us for this, remember? We’re professionals.”

The Knight falls silent, one hand still pressed against his ribs, and finally melts back into his chair.

“Fine,” he says at last. “Bye, commish.”

He doesn’t recognize the men that take him back. The streets are empty, though, barring the patrolling drones, and they make it back to the GCPD unscathed.

Unfortunately, Jim returns to, quite frankly, a disaster. The officers on duty are tied up, and the militia cells are empty. Not a man left. He’s just freeing Cash when the broadcast screen crackles and the Knight appears on it, face serious.

“I mean it, Commissioner,” he says. “Keep out of the way, or I’ll put you in a cell instead.”

“You--”

“Tell Bullock hey for me, would ya?” He leans forward. “Stay safe.”

Click.

THE END

*I’m figuring Bane is bigger than the Giant Mooks because his boss fight consists of you jumping on him to slash his Venom tubes AND because he can and will run you over, while Giant Mooks of any affiliation are not rideable and don’t run.

[sparkie96]

AU Chris (Re1)meets spy!Leon in the Raccoon City Outbreak ( Leon is like Ada )strangers to lover and the fiesta meet is León saying "hold your fire"

(So, Leon actually doesn’t become a spy in the “Umbrella Leon AU” until AFTER Raccoon City because he and Sherry get picked up by Wesker and his associates, but I’ll try to wing it to be earlier than that)

Chris had been in the middle of packing his shit and skipping town when he heard a knock on his door. The former STARS Officer glanced at his clock, the glowing green numbers reading “11:45pm”. Who the hell was here at this time at night? Before he could ask the “Who” and “Why”, he heard Claire’s voice calling for him on the other side, the college student’s banging becoming more rapid and scared. He could hear screaming next door, followed by the growls of zombies.

“Holy shit.” Chris hissed as he dropped his things and bolted to the door, ripping it open and yanking his baby sister inside just as a zombie nearly tore into her. 

Chris pulled his gun from the back of his pants, pointing it and aiming at the undead creature’s head before pulling the trigger. With a loud bang, the gun fired, the bullet lodging itself into the zombie’s head and knocking it off of its feet. Chris hurried up and shut the door behind them, locking it and then turning to Claire, who was breathing heavily and holding her chest. Her eyes were wide in fear and confusion. 

“Claire, what the hell are you doing here?!” Chris asked, his voice cracking as he gently grasped her shoulders, checking her over, “Were you bitten? Attacked?” 

She shook her head, making her ponytail wag behind her, “N-No...no...I’m fine.” She said as she sat down on the foot of his bed, “...you didn’t answer your phone or return my letters and I...what the hell is going on?!” 

“It’s a long story and I’ll tell you later.” Chris replied, grabbing his pack, “Right now, we need to get the hell out of here. There are some very bad people doing very bad things to the people of Raccoon City and they’re coming after me and the remaining STARS Unit because we know too much. And now you if they find out.” 

“Does this have anything to do with the cannibal murders?” Claire asked as she took the pack full of guns that Chris handed her, “Because those things don’t look like cannibals...they look like…” 

“Zombies.” 

“Yeah.” 

Chris loaded up his Samurai Edge before canting his head toward the door, asking Claire if she still had that gun he gave her for her birthday last year. She pulled it out of her belt with a nod, showing it to him. With another nod, he led her to the door, telling her that if she saw any more of those things, to shoot them in the head. That seemed to kill them. Anything else, and do the same. 

“Unless it’s a tyrant,” Chris explained, “Then aim for the pulsing glowing heart looking thing on their chest.” 

“...a what?!” 

“I will explain later!” Chris repeated, opening the door, relieved to see that the zombie was still lying dead on the floor when he kicked it with his booted foot, “C’mon! We have to go meet up with Barry and Jill!”

______________________________________________________________

He shouldn’t have been here, it just felt...wrong considering he had technically been complicit with Irons and Wesker when it came to this whole catastrophe. But Leon wasn’t cruel like them, he couldn’t just let innocent people die. He did manage to get a couple of people to the RPD and helped the kids at the orphanage get to safety, having found an empty but still working school bus as well as finding some survivors to help out with the kids and their teacher. 

But thanks to his need to do good and protect the innocent, Leon had stumbled across some information about the Arklay Murders and the underground construction going on underneath the city. He had figured out that Umbrella had been involved and was experimenting on the citizens of the mountain town. Though, he had eventually been caught eavesdropping on Wesker’s phone call and then brought to Irons. They had threatened to kill him originally, but Sherry Birkin had been there and stood between Leon and Wesker. And then, Wesker found a use for him.  

Irons blackmailed him, threatening Leon’s grandparents who lived in the city and with Chris Redfield’s safety, knowing that Leon and him had grown close during Leon’s time there. Wesker threatened everyone he knew and loved, Sherry included, who was just another innocent who had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was the little girl whom Leon always “babysat” when he stayed after his shift to catch up on work. 

Hence why now, Leon didn’t have a choice when it came to his next “Plan of Action”. Leon gulped as he looked up at the snarling creatures at the back gate, the one area that wasn’t guarded by police or guards. 

He REALLY didn’t want to do this, but he also didn’t want Sherry to receive a broken wrist or any kind of damage. 

With a deep breath, Leon undid the bolt on the gate and then bolted up the stairs. Once he was a safe distance away, he shot the chains off of the gate that prevented the zombies from pushing through. His stomach churned as nausea took over, watching in horror as the monsters shambled in. He wanted to shoot at them, but he didn’t know who was watching. He looked up at the security camera above the door, seething at the red blinking light. 

Of course Irons was watching to make sure he got the job done. 

“Marvin, I’m sorry.” Leon whispered as he headed back inside, leaving the door wide open behind him. 

______________________________________________________________

“Hurry!” Chris exclaimed to Claire as they ran inside the front gates of the RPD, Chris shooting down a couple zombies as they shuffled after them. 

Claire practically dove inside like a baseball player reaching Home Base before Chris shoved the gates closed, locking the bolt in place just as the undead reached them. Rotting palms and fists beat and slammed against the metal doors, the beasts on the other side growling and snarling in what seemed like anger, having been denied their next meals. 

Claire sat on her butt as she looked at them and then up at her brother, “Can...you tell me...now?” She asked in between breaths, “And why are we here? I...I thought you said that we had to meet with Barry...downtown?” 

Chris breathed his own deep breaths, resting his hands on his knees as he bent forward slightly, “We will meet with him...just gotta...rest for a minute.” 

“Chris there’s fucking monsters on the other side of this gate!” Claire protested, “We should have just cut through the alleyways!” 

“I know!” Chris hollered, “But if we cut through the RPD, that will not only be safer but quicker. The back leads to downtown, I promise.” 

“And what if this place is infested?” Claire asked, getting to her feet while gulping down another breath, “Like that damn bar when we got separated from Brad and Jill?” 

“It’s safe here.” Chris reassured, “They’re gathering survivors here and there’s plenty of guys and gals who are fully capable of wielding a gun.” 

Claire gave an almost quiet “alright” before standing up fully, her and Chris taking a moment to reload their guns. Once their guns were fully cocked and loaded, Chris carefully opened the door, stepping through and making sure it was secure before having Claire bring up the rear. 

This was not what Chris had expected. 

The RPD was deathly silent and there was not a soul in sight. There was blood splattered across the tiled floor, hospital equipment and supplies left seemingly abandoned. The building creaked and settled around them. Where the hell was everyone? 

“Where is everybody?” Claire asked, her voice just above a whisper, “I thought you said they were gathering survivors here.” 

Chris nodded, “I did...and they were...but…” 

They heard a gunshot come from upstairs, both of them jumping at the abrupt noise. Chris raised his gun, telling Claire that it sounded like the shot came from the waiting area upstairs. He suggested that she stayed down here where it was open and safe, but she shook her head, saying that she was going with him whether he liked it or not. 

“I lost Mom and Dad,” She said, “I’m not losing you too.” 

Chris’s heart twisted in his chest at that, gulping down the lump in his throat before giving another nod, “...Alright, but stay close and stay alert. Remember what I said. Got it, Little Red?” 

She smiled, giving a nod of her own, “Got it, Big Red.” 

____________________________________________________________

A couple minutes earlier…

Shit! Things were going South so fucking fast! Though, that was to be expected when one let zombies run loose in a building full of people, but Leon wasn’t supposed to get caught up in it. Leon ran through the corridors and hallways, having abandoned the idea of going back to Irons’s office on the bottom floor, considering the bastard had already left through the Parking Garage with Sherry. His door had been fucking locked when Leon twisted the knob, which meant he was long gone. 

And Leon was royally screwed and utterly alone. 

Luckily, he had avoided everyone and the infected, not having so much as a scratch on him. Which was good, because according to his research, and the notes he had snatched off of Wesker’s desk, these things could infect someone via a bite or a scratch. Or via ingestion, but there was no rhyme or reason for Leon to want to stick his mouth anywhere near one of these bastards. And no way in hell was he hungry after all the shit he had seen tonight. 

He had shot a zombie that had gotten too close to him before he stumbled through the nearest door without thinking. 

Leon was face-to-face with a barrel of a gun, “H-Hold your fire!” 

The next thing he heard was the sound of a gunshot...but there was no pain.

[chickensarentcheap]

I Found -Chapter 22

Author’s note:  This story is NOT coming to an end. There’s still things I want to do with it, like add past chapters to show how they met and how she blended in to the (slightly adapted) story line.

That being said, I am working on a small companion piece that takes place five years in the future. So look out for that!

Warnings:  mentions of blood and gun violence

Tagging:  @valkyrie-of-the-light  @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @alievans007

She estimates the exact spot.

 The sidewalks and roadway have been cleaned multiple times in the course of a year and many rains had fallen. Yet there remains several dark stains that mar the cement: a slight possibility of being the remnants of human being. There had been so much. More than she had ever seen in her entire time of the or during her postings overseas. She can still smell it. Feel its smooth texture as it seeped through her fingers and clothes. And she could still her that unmistakable gurgle; the choking and the sputtering.  The sounds that accompanied someone drowning in their own blood.

 She places her palms on the cold metal railing and stares out at the Buriganga. Watching the way the  sunlight glitters on the rippling surface and the way the boats -both commercial and personal- effortless glide through the water. She had thought her reaction would be different. That she would be hit with a tsunami of suppressed rage, trauma, and bitterness that would take her breath away and bring her to her knees. But instead there's peace. A sense of calm that spreads from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. Realization surging through her, like a warm, cozy blanket being draped across her shoulders. Perhaps it is closure. Being able to stand there a year and realize that they had made it. He had made it. The initial horror finally behind them; the long gruelling months of healing and rehab now a thing of the past. All that lay ahead of them now was the present. And the future. That last page of a hellish book finally being turned.

 “Sorry we're late.”

 She turns to face him. Jason has gone to the extra mile to make things more believable; a dirty Farhad by his side, a hand firmly grasping the young man's arm, Fahrad's hands trussed into front of him with plastic zip ties. Her initial instinct is to confront Jason right away! To hell with the kid! She wants to throw the photographs in his face and punch him in the throat and kick him when he's done. Keep kicking him. Until he's begging her to stop. He seems so damn proud of himself. A cocky smile plastered across his face, as if presenting her with the kid is deserving of hero worship and praise.  She wants to laugh at him. To call him a stupid sonofabitch and let him know he's not going to get out of there unscathed.  It is way too late for that. There's things he has to answer for and she's going to make sure that happens.

 Instead she smiles. Hoping it doesn't look as phony as it feels.

 “You arranged this?” Jason asks her, as he nods towards the barricades that have been set up at either end of the bridge.

 “I had help.  A friend that owed me.”

 “Must be a hell of a friend. Going through all that trouble. Well,here's your chance...” he uses a shoulder to shove Fahrad towards her. The kid is confused; wild eyed in a mix of terror and nerves. Apparently this wasn't what was planned. Fahrad just as much being thrown to the wolves as she is.  He's not as confident now. The minions that follow him around are nowhere in sight. He's unarmed.  There's no Asif to impress. And he's now reduced to a frightened boy scared of his own shadow.

 “You can go,” Esme says to Jason. “I don't need you now.”

 “There's no way I'm leaving you alone with him. Who knows what's he capable of. If he has buddies just watching and waiting to jump in he gets in trouble.”

 “Then wait over there,” she jerks her head to the left. “This kid and I need to have a chat.”

 He relents; holding his hands up in surrender and then moving down the bridge. Until he's several feet away, leaning back against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes focused on his feet. For once he isn't wearing a suit jacket; the Dhaka heat and humidity too much to bear. Instead he wears a simple pair of beige linen pants and a burgundy golf shirt.

 She doesn't think he's armed. No holster on the hip or attached to the thighs and no discernible bulge at the back of his pants.

 “Do you remember me?” she asks Fahrad. “From a year ago? You and I stood on this very bridge. About fifty meters apart. You looked right at me.”

 He nods.

 “I'm not here to kill you,” her voice is low, barely above a whisper. “And I need you to listen very carefully to me, okay? This isn't about you. It was. But this is about him,” she casually nods over her shoulder in Jason's direction. “I know that you're working together. That you know each other. He told you that I sent him here? To find you?”

 Another nod.

 “I was going to come here and put a bullet in your brain,” she admits. “But then I realized that that changes nothing. It doesn't erase what happened. It would only put an even heavier weight on my heart. But I can't forgive you. Not yet. Maybe not ever.  Do you understand what I'm saying? At least blink if you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth.”

 “I understand.”

 “I need you to help me. Can you do that? I promise you that you'll make it out of here. Nothing will happen to you. I just need you to play along with whatever I say or do. I have a gun in my bag...”

 Fahrad blinks; shifting nervously from foot to foot.

 “It isn't loaded, but he doesn't realize that. I need you trust me and just go with it. You do that and you walk out of here. If you don't and you try something funny, there is someone that won't be as merciful as I am. He will kill you. In a heartbeat. You cooperate, you live ? Got it?”

 “Yes,” he issues a huge sigh. Of relief? Bad nerves? She can't completely tell.

 “If I say the name Tyler Rake, do you know who that is?”  her voice is louder, so Jason can overhear them.

 “I do,” Fahrad confirms. “He's the one that got the kid. That embarrassed Asif.”

 “He's also the one that you shot. In the throat. And nearly killed. My name is Esme. Esme Rake. Tyler is my husband. Now do you know when I'm here?”

 “I think so.”

 “A year ago, you almost took everything away from me. I'd just met the love of my life. Totally and completely unexpected. You know the saying, love comes when you least expect it? That's what happened to me. And no sooner did I meet him, I almost lost him. I was here. Do you remember? After you shot him, you looked right at me. While I was down there on the sidewalk begging him to stay alive. Begging him to just hang on a little while longer. Telling him I loved him. He was dying. In my arms. And you stood there and you smirked at me. Do you remember that?”

 The tears threaten. The wound is so raw and so fresh. Stripping away that blanket of peace that she had been feeling just minutes before.   Those same feelings of horror and paralyzing fear returning; the way her body had seemed to switch to autopilot and act on its own accord while hysteria took over every other part of her. Up until that moment a year ago, she'd learned to harness those emotions. She'd learned long ago had to bottle them up and prevent them from over flowing. There was simply no room for fear when you were in the desert, fighting for your life, or when faced with dire consequences and decisions while on the job. There were times she'd felt sorry for someone; moved by families' stories and pleas for help, by the gratefulness show by those who were rescued. But she kept it pushed down deep inside.

 Where wounds linger and fester the longest.

 That day on the bridge, she'd been stripped down to a shell of herself. A once confident, fearless, and independent woman reduced to a pathetic, weak, and hysterical little girl.

 That was the almost hardest thing to accept. Tyler may not have died that day. But a huge part of her did.

 “I was holding him while he was dying,” she continues. “Have you ever seen something like that? Have you ever had to sit back and watch the person you love more than anything in the world struggling to stay alive? And you just looked at me. And smirked. Like you felt nothing. Is that what it was? You felt nothing ? Taking his life was some kind of badge of honour, wasn't it. His life was trophy. A way of impressing Asif.”

 Farhad nods.

 “Did you really feel nothing? When you looked at me, did you really not feel anything at all? Because you weren't just watching one person dying. You were watching two.”

 “I felt nothing,” he admits, and the calmness and the finality in his voice sends a chill down his voice.  “He deserved to die. For what he did. Humiliating Asif like that. Humiliating me.  He deserved to die. And he should have died.”

 “But he didn't, did he. He didn't die. Because you completely underestimated him. Two weeks before, he would have just let it happen. He wanted to die himself and was looking for a way for it to play out. But suddenly he had something to live for. A future he was looking forward to. And that's why he held on. That's why you failed. That's a bitter pill to swallow, isn't it? That you failed not once, but twice.”

 She can tell he's not sure how to react. He's trying to figure out if what she's saying is the truth or just part of the game they're playing. Truth be told, it's both. A way of allowing Jason to think there's nothing out of the ordinary, and a way of her bearing her soul. This kid is her confessional. Whether he realizes it or not.

 “You almost took everything away from me. And now it's time for me take everything away from you.”

****

  The gun is light in her hand; magazine long discarded. Yet part of her wishes that that one bullet still remained in the chamber.  The rage and the sadness so strong and consuming that she would have had no problem pulling the trigger.

 It is placed underneath Fahrad's chin; a kill shot that she'd learned from Nik.  One centimetre to the left and she was hitting the femoral artery and he'd be left to die an excruciating death as he bled out on the sidewalk. Straight up and back towards the throat, his demise would be instantaneous. Painless. Part of her said that that was too good for him. After everything he'd done...everything he had put them through...he deserved as much suffering as possible.  But the other part...the human and rational part...reminded her that this was just a kid. One that had grown up in poverty and subjected to neglect and inhumane living conditions.  And the need to impress Asif directly came from his upbringing. Or lack thereof.

 There's trust in his eyes. Trust that she probably didn't deserve. And for a brief moment she sees his own glitter of humanity. That if given the chance to thrive, would lead him to making better choices. To wanting more for himself.

 “Okay...that's enough...” Jason steps in now, and she's finally able to get a good look at him.  Determining that he is unarmed and will no doubt use the gun that she had on her to take his shot. That had been the plan; let him think he had the upper hand, and then totally turn the tables. “...there's no need for this...you said your piece...leave the kid alone...”

 'She's right,” Farhad speaks up. Fuelling the fire. “I do deserve it.  I feel nothing. I felt nothing when I shot him and I feel nothing, listening to her sad story. Are you going to cry, lady? Are you going to break down in tears over what I did? Because I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

 She presses the gun further into his chin. The truth of the words sting; he is probably telling the truth. He had felt nothing. And feels nothing at this very moment.

 “You shut your goddamn mouth,”  Jason orders, and then turns to Esme. Voice quiet, his smile comforting. “The kid isn't going to die today. Now give me the gun..”

 She puts up some light resistance, then reluctantly hands it over.  She remains calm. Stoned face. Yet deep within her chest, her heart hammers wildly.

 *****

 “You were right you know,” he says, as he paces back in forth in front of her.  “When you said that Tyler staying in a different place when you got here was a mistake. It would have made you a much easier target.  You would have been all alone in that house with no one to protect you. Do you really think the armed guards would have been able to do it? They couldn't even stop you from leaving the place this morning. You would have been a sitting duck. Which would have made things way too simple. Which isn't the way we like to do things.”

 “Who is 'we' Jason? I saw the pictures. The ones under your mattress in your hotel room.”

 “Why am I not surprised you went there. I had a feeling you would. I made sure that people saw Farhad and I together. I knew they wouldn't keep their mouths shut. “

 “I had nothing to do with this,” Farhad pipes up. “He gave me money. Said he needed me to meet with someone. To pretend like we were friends in the market. But I had nothing to do with this. What is wrong with you, man? She's a woman. Why would you do this?”

 He ignores the kid.  “I knew you would head there, Esme. You can take the girl out of the job, but not the job out of the clear. You're clever. Way more clever than you give yourself credit for. Old habits die hard and I knew once you thought something up, you wouldn't resist just jumping right back into the game.”

 “Just how much of this is your idea?” she inquires. “The threats to Ovi? The letters? The phone calls? The dead animals on his doorstep.”

 “There were other people for those jobs. There's a lot of us. Hiding in plain sight. Where you least expect it. My job was a little bit harder. Because I had to fool Nik first. It wasn't easy, you know. Getting one over on her. But my people  have people and they were able to make me look real good on paper. So good she couldn't resist. After that I just had to wait. Just sit back until news got to Tyler that Ovi was in trouble.  We all know the bond he has with that boy.  We knew he wouldn't be able to keep away.”

 “So why not take your shot? All the chances you had within the past two weeks to take him down. Why didn't you do it?”

 “Oh come on,” he chuckles. “You're a smart girl. You know how these games are played. We had to get inside his head first. We had to stir the pot, so to speak. Remember when you said that the bad guys would strike where they know would hurt him the most? Well that's you.  You're the one thing in this world that he loves. The person that came along and rescued him and gave him another chance.  So what better way to get to him then going through you?”

 “This is crazy,” Farhad frets.  “Don't do this. She's a woman. Just let her go. There's no reason to do this.”

 “Now I know what you're going to say,” Jason continues. “You're going to say that your little girl is the one thing that he loves most in this world. Even more than he loves you. But even we won't stoop that low. A baby is completely off limits. After all, what has she done to deserve something bad happening to her? It's not her fault who her father is.”

 “You're insane,” Esme informs him, stoic despite the anxiety and the nausea surging through her. “You'll never get away with this. Nik knows. She knows you're here and that I'm the one that asked you to come here. Anything happens to me, she will know it was you. And there will be nowhere you can hide. She will find you. And Tyler will find you. And you'll be praying it's Nik that finds you first.”

 “That's a bridge I'll cross when I get to it. Bridge? Get it.” he laughs. “How does it feel. Esme? To be here.  To be in the spot where your husband nearly died. Where he should have died.  How does it feel? Hurts like hell, doesn't it. Reliving it all.  It's kind of ironic that you'll be the one that ends up dying here, don't you think? Alone. With no one to comfort you like you did with him.”

 “I think you're fucking crazy,” she declares. “I think you're certifiably insane and that you're not thinking things through. You won't get away. There will be nowhere you can hide. He has found people bigger and better than you and they didn't live to tell about it. So how does that make you feel?”

 “See, that's what I like about you. How feisty you are. I can see why he fell in love with you. I definitely don't blame him for that. I think you're personally too good for him, but that's just my humble opinion.  Do you remember how you said that the bad guys would try and break him ? Make him vulnerable? That's when I knew you were smarter than you looked. That you aren't just a pretty face.  So tell me...” he calmly presses the barrel of the gun to her forehead. “...how does it feel to know that you're his weakness? That you're possibly the only person that effectively bring Tyler Rake down? Doesn't it give you some sense of power? Knowing how easy it is going to be to destroy him? There has to be some kind of perverse pleasure in that.”

 “You don't want to do this, Jason. This is the last thing you want to.  It won't end well for you. You know that.”

 “Maybe. But I’ll die knowing that I brought him down. What better revenge than taking away the one person that loves him the most? That saved him. Quite the love story if you ask me. Two broken people finding one another when they least expected it. Losing you will make him vulnerable. Which will make him weak. Which will make him an easy target. He won't be thinking right. Maybe he'll go back to the pills and the drinking again. That would be a nice touch. That would make killing him even easier. So again...tell me...” he places his finger on the trailer. “...are you ready to die for him?”

 “I don't know, Jason,” she smirks. “ Are you?”

  *****

 One shot. That's all it takes to bring him down. The nine millimetre round passing through the right side of his throat and passing through to the other side. Tyler doesn't hesitate pulling the trigger; he'll slip the magazine back into the Glock and return one to the chamber and tell Nik that it was a clean kill. That Jason had a gun to Esme's head and was going to kill her. It was a simple explanation. One that she would buy thanks to the cell phone in Esme's bag, recording the entire confrontation.   There's no adrenaline rush that comes with killing now.  He hasn't felt that in a long time; since way before the incident in Dhaka last year. Taking a life had become easy. Never blinking, never flinching. Just doing what he had to do to survive. Or help others survive.

 The shot hasn't killed him. Through and through's rarely do unless they hit an artery on the way out.  And he's writhing on the ground in agony when Tyler approaches, the soles of his boots passing over the layers of dirt and debris that line on the bridge.  He's bleeding out; death will be slow. Agonizing. And he hopes that kid is feeling even a fraction of what he'd felt. When he'd been dragging himself across the cement, attempting to staunch the flow of blood from his own throat, growing weaker by the moment,  choking on his blood.  Those seconds had felt like hours.

  Time passes at an excruciatingly slow pace when you're waiting to die.

 “You okay?” he asks his wife, as she leans back against the railing of the bridge. Jason's blood splattered across her face and over her clothing.

 She nods, eyes riveted on the suffering figure moaning in agony on the pavement in front of her.

 Tyler stands over him, placing a boot on his chest. “I told you not to fuck with me, didn't I. I told you not to go near my wife. But you couldn't resist, could you. You couldn't resist pissing me off.”

 The younger man attempts a response. But it's nothing but a gurgle. Rivers of bright red blood pouring from the sides of his mouth.

 Tyler chooses mercy over vengeance.  And puts another round between his eyes. It's then that he realizes Farhad is still there; eyes wide in shock at what had played out around him.  He isn’t so big and brave now. With none of his friends to back him, without the safety net of Asif and his hired thugs.  “Where the fuck do you think you're going?” he growls, and advances on him. “Do you remember me, you little shit? The one you shot in the fucking neck a year ago? Yeah, you remember me, don't you.”

 “I had nothing to do with this I swear,” the kid is visibly trembling. A far cry from the little hard ass wannabe that had ambushed him in the alley a year ago. Or when he'd pulled a bitch move and shot him from behind. “I wasn't going to hurt her. I was just here to talk. I...”

 Tyler places the barrel of his gun against Farhad's forehead.

Revenge is a fickle beast. One moment you are on the side of forgiveness, the next you're willing to take a life.   His eyes never leave the kid's'; watching the way the younger man violently trembles and tears fill his eyes.  A  satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth when he realizes that she's actually made the kid piss himself.  

 He holsters his gun. And pulling the knife from the pocket of his pants, uses it to slice through the zip ties binding Fahrad's wrists together. “Go,” he orders.  “Get the hell out of here. Before I change my mind.”

 “But you...I...”

 “I said go!” he barks, and the kid gives a startled blink and then turns on his heel.

 Tyler's never seen someone run that fast.

 “You sure you're okay?” he asks his wife, as he joins her on the sidewalk.  Using the front of his own t-shirt own clear the blood from her face and neck. “Probably stinks like hell,” he says in way of apology. “It's hot as fuck here today. But it's all I have so...”

 She gives a tiny smile of appreciation, her eyes locked on his as he tenderly cleans her face.  Such a juxtaposition; stone cold killer one minute, caring and doting husband the next.

 “We need to move,” he tells her. “The bridge will be opening back up soon. It's going to be crawling for cops. We'll find a place to lie low until Yaz comes for us. We...”

 Her lower lip begins to tremble, and she draws in a shaky breath as it all becomes too much. The memories of a year ago. The extent of the danger she'd not only put herself in, but also their unborn baby.  And she gives a choked sob as she drops her head to his chest, arms circling his waist.

 He holds her and lets her cry; body wracking sobs that he can feel to his very soul. All of the pain and the heartache of the past year flowing out of her all at once. The nightmare that she'd witnessed -and living with its consequences- finally coming to an end.  It's a relief; to have that weight off of your shoulders. He knows far too well what it's like to hold onto the pain and allow it to drag you down.  And he tangles his fingers in her hair and holds her head tightly to him, his other arm curling around her waist.  Feeling the tears soaking through his t-shirt and the way the shivering finally begins to subside.

 “It's okay now,” he says, and presses a kiss to her temple before backing away and taking her face in his hands.  “It's over. You can let it go now. You need to let it go.”

 “I want to go home,” she sniffles. “I just want to go home.”

 He knows it's impossible. That there's still people out there looking for them. That the troubles will never fully come to an end. But he can give her a home. In a new country. A new place.  

 He can give her a future.

 ****

 “So what now?” Yaz asks, a half an hour into their flight.  

 Tyler had been dozing off; leaning back against the wall of the helicopter, legs stretched out. He's exhausted. Emotionally. His brain tired from reliving the day he nearly lost his life. From the flood of memories that had come surging back with a vengeance.  From the stress and the rage and the worry that been eating him alive all day.  Esme is fast asleep beside him; curled up in a fetal position with her head resting on his thigh,  Yaz's jacket keeping her warm. He hasn't let her out of his sight since they left the bridge; keeping a protective hold on her, even now.  His hand on the top of her head, softly stroking her hair.

 “I have no idea,” he admits.

 “So no going back to Australia?”

 “That ship has sailed, mate. It's time to move on to bigger and better things.”

 “So this is it, yeah? Your last job?”

 “Suppose to be.”

 He's surprised that he's used those words.  It was only intended to be a one off.  His last mission. But he'd been surprised at how much he actually missed it. The surge of energy and power you get when going into a dangerous situation; relying on your skill and your wits to get yourself and others out alive.  He'd felt in complete control for the first time in a long time. Confident. As if the old Tyler was making a permanent reappearance instead of a temporary one.

 Maybe there was a way. Of safely balancing two vastly different lives. One in which he was a husband and a father. Another where he was a soldier for hire.

 “Do you think it's over?”” Yaz asks. “All this stuff with Ovi? What Jason did...”

 “He said there's more of them out there just like him. I doubt he was running the whole show himself.  That would have been too much ground to cover for one person.”

 “Kind of fucked up, huh? The extents he was willing go to get to you.”

 “Yeah...” Tyler agrees. “...just a little fucked up.”

 Esme stirs; mumbling in her sleep and rubbing her cheek against his thigh. And he runs his palm over her hair and down onto her hip, his hand moving in slow, comforting circles.  

 “I don't think it's over,” he says.  “This bullshit with Ovi. I still think there's someone out there  just waiting for their chance. I've made a lot of enemies over the years. It's foolish to think that they won't come after me.”

 “Not if they can't find you,” Yaz points out.

 “They'll find me. They always do.”

 “So what then? Do you spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder? Waiting for the other shoe to drop?”

 “No,” he says. “I spend it protecting my family.”

 No matter what it takes.