The Hedgehog and the Fox - The First Time Hurts the Most

[x-roulette.livejournal.com]

A robbery takes place, while Jennie and Clint fight for their lives.



The clunk of shatterproof glass hitting the floor between two displays in the main hall of the National Museum of Denmark. Ropes dropped from the opening above as alarms blared and lights flashed. Over the cacophony of noise, the erratic sound of singing could be heard.

“You’ve lost -- that loving feeling, whoa-oh -- that loving feeling…” Two men and one woman slid down the ropes, not bothering with harnesses or gloves. The friction burns on their hands healed almost immediately. Straightening, two of the three turned to look at the third, their fractured, black-white irises glinting eerily in the emergency lighting. With a gesture, the obvious leader of the mission indicated the other two should deal with the security and police who were arriving.

Lyrics floated outward, ill-timed and jumbled, off-key and discordant. “That loving feeling — now it’s gone, gone, gone… whoa-oooooooh…” The man didn’t pause after that, simply went to the door nearest him and ripped out the keypad, happily ignoring the ‘employees only’ sign above. It was but the work of a moment to unhinge the door. Alarms continued to blare, but he ignored them.

The item he sought was buried deep within the museum, housed in special lockboxes, held secure behind steel and concrete — maybe even lasers. It would be such fun to retrieve it for Mother. She would be so proud of him! She would love him again. Maybe she would let him play with Donal.

Donal —Donal — Donal.

Giles hated Donal the way he loved Mother.

Giles loved Mother so much.

The door at the end of the hallway opened onto stairs. Giles hopped over the railing and fell two storeys down, but he didn’t stop his forward movement long enough to let whatever damage he’d just done to his feet heal. Instead, he moved forward, through another easily-destroyed door and into another long hallway. There was a door to the side here, though, that opened onto a room. And in the room there was a vault. In the vault, there was a collection of jewels.

Crown jewels, fit for crowns — fit for queens, fit for Mother.

The guards were nothing, they didn’t even get a chance to pull out their weapons. The two with Giles took them out, silent as shadows. In their minds they could feel Mother, feel how much she loved them. How happy they made her. They could sense their brothers fighting through the link Mother bestowed them with. Oh, today was a good day. A very very good day. Mother would be so tired, but they would make her better. Yes they would.

The smaller of the Disciples, the newest one, a man called Ran stepped forward. He reached into the bag slung across his shoulder. Alarms were sounding, guards were racing from other parts of the museum, but they would be too late. Giles and the other Disciple, who was called Marie, attached the bundles of C4 as Ran set up the wiring. They stepped back as Ran finished, and then with a bang that shook the whole building, they were in.

The heat wave from the blast itself was like a warm wind, like hurricanes, but it didn’t knock them over. It didn’t budge them a bit. The debris from the concrete surrounding the vault door hit them, mostly vaporized, but Giles was already moving forward. He braced his feet and leaned against the vault door, almost pressing his ear to it as though listening for something sounding softly from the other side.

He was not listening, though.

Feet braced, Giles used all his strength to push and push and push until the door fell over with a mighty groan. It landed violently, shaking the floor upon which they all stood, but Giles couldn’t have cared less. He’d already hopped up onto the door and danced his way inside, voice ringing out every now and again. “And now you’re starting to criticize the things I doooooo…”

The singing paused for a moment as Giles looked around the interior of the vault. So many shiny things hidden in little, numbered boxes. But that was alright. He knew what was what and where what was. Grinning to himself, laughing in delight, he danced off the end of the vault door and slid across the metallic floor. “One box, two box, three box — four,” he whispered to himself, fingertips tapping the boxes as he went.

Box twenty-nine held the what that he needed, the pretty, shiny jewel that was meant for Mother and Mother alone. Silly Danish monarchy, thinking to hide it away, keep it safe and secure inside a museum full of other pretty things. Baubles, everything else was inconsequential. Only this box mattered. Only this box held the pretty, shiny star.”

“Cause baby… something beautiful’s dying…” Giles flexed his fingers, narrowed his eyes, and then dug his fingernails into the small, metal door of the box that held the Star. He didn’t know its history, he didn’t know its provenance, he didn’t care. It was beautiful, though, once he finally got it into his bloodied, broken fingers. Leaning down, lips brushing the blood-flecked facets, Giles crooned, “If you would only love me like you used to do…”

“Freeze!” The guards appeared behind them, weapons drawn.

“So fragile, you are,” said Ran. “Look at you, bones and skin of paper.” He took a step forward and one of the guards fired. The bullet struck him in the chest, and he looked at the hole in the front of his shirt. At the wound that closed as quickly as it was made. He looked back up, and his grin was nothing short of monstrous.

There were fifteen guards who died that day. Bodies ripped apart as if they were nothing more than matchsticks. And the three responsible barely even paused, wading through the carnage and up the ropes as quickly as they came. They could feel Mother shuddering with pride and joy, and also her exhaustion. They had to get back to her, quick. She needed them.

“Bring back that loving feeling,” Giles whispered, losing the tune of the song entirely as he led his brethren over rooftops. “Cause it’s gone, gone, gone… and I can’t go on, whoa-oooooh…” They dripped blood, pieces of skin, and bits of blood behind them in a trail that would be easy to follow — except that it ended abruptly at the edge of a building overlooking the water.

The police who followed it could only deduce that the trio of murderers had jumped from that point into the water below. One man seemed hopeful that they might have died on impact, but the others all agreed — any person or group of people who could shrug off bullet wounds like they were nothing… would not have died from hitting the water wrong. Nor was it likely they would have drowned.

***
Sidestep —

Duck —

Jump —

Roll —

Kick —

Clint’s strike landed, a knife lodging in the meat of the Disciple’s shoulder. Wickedly sharp, slightly curved at the end, it wasn’t actually his. Neither was the poisonous mixture that coated the blade. If he lost that dagger, he’d have Hell to pay. Of course, he was going to have Hell to pay, anyway, once various people got word of this particular series of unfortunate events.

Rolling again, Clint came up several yards away from the man, dirt and debris covering his back and shoulders. Blood trickled down the side of his face from a blow he’d almost managed to avoid. He’d suffered the tail end of it, whipping his head to the side just a little too slow. So now he was bleeding, but so was the Disciple.

“That the best you’ve got?” Clint asked.

The man didn’t respond immediately. He just smiled. Clint let the ball bearings he’d tucked up his sleeve slide down into his palm. He threw three of them at once, accounting for his foe’s potential movements based on his fighting style thus far. The man didn’t even attempt to dodge. He just took the hit to the face. Only one ball bearing struck home, but it shattered his nose and left a dent where it had been.

Clint knew from prior experience that the injury itself wouldn’t last particularly long. But, having broken his own nose a time or two, he knew it hurt like fuck.

The next ball bearings hit the man’s throat, but he still didn’t move. The motionlessness, particularly given how vicious he’d been mere moments ago, was highly unusual. It left Clint feeling like he was missing something — something important. Something that would probably get him killed, with his luck.

“Remember, remember,” the man rasped, voice box damaged. How he was speaking when his trachea should have been crushed was a mystery. He ought to be slowly suffocating. “The fifth of November.”

“Right month,” Clint offered, letting his focus broaden a bit. He’d lose distance perception, but only a little — and if it kept him from getting ambushed by another one of these crazies, he’d take it. “Wrong date.”

“The gunpowder treason and plot,” the man continued as though Clint hadn’t interrupted. And then he began to move. It was immediately, abundantly clear that he’d been holding back this entire time. Toying with Clint like a cat plays with its food before pouncing.

“I know of no reason,” the Disciple said, hands stretching oddly. They elongated, the nails becoming metallic as they lengthened. “Why the gunpowder treason.”

Clint’s entire life purpose shifted in that moment. Forget science. Forget romance. Forget friendship. Forget liquor. He forgot absolutely everything but his instinctive, reactive ability to predict a thing’s future placement based on its current position, movement, and speed. Liquid dripped from the tips of the man’s fingers. Clint’s mind automatically began accounting for the directionality of the spatter.

“Should ever,” the Disciple continued, voice rising — feet flying toward Clint now as his lengthened fingers with their shiny-sharp, dripping nails whirled around him. “Be.” If he had been able to process anything but the unyielding desire to survive this encounter, Clint might have wondered if the whole thing wasn’t slightly beautiful.

“Forgot.” The Disciple bellowed the last word. It was almost like anticipating the landing spots of a cat-o-nine-tails, but not quite. So many factors, so many options, so many potential errors. Whatever the liquid was, several drops hit the body armor covering Clint’s stomach and lingered.

Clint pulled his guns. They weren’t his first choice for a weapon, but given the circumstances, he’d take whatever the fuck he could get. Every bullet he fired hit its mark even as he danced backward and forward, side to side. He jumped, he rolled, he practically climbed the side of the building and then flipped backward to land behind the Disciple. More of the liquid landed on him. It didn’t sting where it hit his knuckles, which gave him just a moment to consider its viscosity — he’d bet his best bow the liquid was mercury.

***
Jennie spat another mouthful of blood. Her mind was racing. She had to get away from Donal — had to get to Clint — had to get to the bag and end this. "Well, let's finish this," she clenched her fingers into fists one more time.

"So eager to die!" Donal circled her, a predator stalking prey. "No, no it won't be quick. No. I'll be slow. I've wanted this for so long — I'm going to savor every bit of this. Every cry, every scream — to me, that is Heaven. That is my reward. I've been very, very good."

"Look at what she's done to you," Jennie heard herself say. "Oh, my sweet boy."

"She freed me," Donal said, the glee gone from his face like a switch had been flipped inside him. "I'm happy now. It's everything I've ever dreamed. I'm powerful. Nothin’ and no one can hurt me." He seemed to be speaking the words by rote, almost as though if he repeated them enough, he could make them true.

"You're wrong," Jennie said. "You're dead. Donal McGrath is dead. The man that I loved is dead and gone. You're the thing that's left."

"Oh, this is me, Jennie. This is who I've always been. Lurking beneath the surface. It — it's been hell without you, Jennie. It has. I have suffered — I have burned for you, dreamed of you every night. God, the things I want to do to you. The things I'm going to do to you," Donal laughed, and it sounded disjointed, broken. The laugh of a madman barely containing his insanity.

Is he...? Jennie frowned. If she could push him more, make him lose it entirely. Then maybe she could gain the upper hand.

"I've thought of you, too," said Jennie. "But… I’ve moved on," Jennie shrugged a shoulder. "I found someone else." Donal flinched. "It was hard at first, but not that hard. You just weren't as important to me as you thought you were — as you think you are. Foolish bo--" Jennie was unable to finish as Donal leapt at her with a scream.

This fight was faster, more brutal than the one before. Each punch, each kick designed to damage her as much as possible — to take her down. Jennie evaded as best she could, even landed a few blows of her own, but she could have been punching the wall for all the good it did her. At least she was holding her own. At least she was on her feet. At least —

She took a step back, and plunged into nothingness.