Fourth rule of Anomaly Fight Club...
One of her vaporous appendages released its grip on Elliot’s arm in order to seize Cabe by the ankle, but it was too late. Gravity was already on his side. The cumbersome steel unit teetered dangerously under the momentum of Cabe’s assault, but it was the weight of the topmost drawer slumping forward on its rails that served as the final push to tip it over.
Their Assailant’s second luminous tentacle released Elliot on order to form a shield around her as the full burden of the filing cabinet – and the two hundred pounds of W.A.R.D. agent it was currently supporting – came down drawer-first on top of her.
… learn to use said environment to your OWN advantage.
Grunting awkwardly, Cabe rolled to a stop at the edge of the desk, scrambling to get his bearings. A quick glance told him that his target was oozing more and more of that eerie blue mist, almost as if bleeding; her body was crushed, one hand scratching at the floor beneath her for purchase. She was injured, but he guessed he had maybe seconds before she would be on him, and he did not want to let her get ahold of him again.
A tiny burst of fuchsia static and another rapid round of gunshots provided him with the buffer he needed to kick the wooden desk in front of him up onto its side (which, while he wasn’t about to tell anyone, was purely a lucky fluke and he wasn’t entirely sure he would ever be able to do it again) and drive it down feet-first on top of the filing cabinet that was pinning their Assailant to the dented hardwood floor, forcing it down even harder on top of her.
“Sparrow, MOVE –!”
Had Elliot’s warning not come a hair to late, or maybe had Cabe not been wearing those ridiculously counterproductive Oxford shoes, he might’ve been able to dodge what happened next. A dazzling white light had begun to spill out from beneath the pile of broken furniture, glowing harsher and harsher before finally erupting in an astronomical wave of pulsing, crackling, searing blue energy. Everything unfortunate enough to be in its path was flung violently outward. Test tubes shattered, splattering a second desk with a shower of thick, crimson droplets as stacks of papers nearby scattered across the floor. A tall bookshelf caught on the ledge behind it that had once been a wall, capsizing backwards under its own weight. Various pieces of hanging and unanchored equipment were tossed left and right, away from the incandescent epicenter to shatter against walls and surfaces.
Temporarily blinded by the flare, Cabe heard the pandemonium more than actually witnessed it. But even just by audio alone it sounded unpleasant.
He was airborne, that much he knew. And there was some sort of motion, which was turning his stomach inside out. And then – with a sharp suddenness, a sickening crack, and a rush of mind-numbing pain – just as soon as it had started, the motion stopped. Gravity betrayed its allegiance with him, and he dropped like a stone to land excruciatingly on top of what appeared to be an enormous, cracked, L.E.D. monitor.
Rule number... rule... r-rule number...
His world was on fire. Hazy balls of light sparkled in and out of his blurry triple-vision, and he wasn’t sure if the shrill, painful ringing in his ears came from the orbs themselves or from something inside of his head. Or maybe both. He momentarily forgot which way was up, the air around him thick and heavy like smoke or cloud, pressing him down. A dull ache, punctuated on every heartbeat by a sharp stab of pain, throbbed at the back of his skull, consuming any thoughts or words that tried to materialize.
Get up, Sparrow! It wasn’t his own voice that resonated between his ears... it was Aaron Boone’s. Get the hell up off your ass! You gotta make it outta here in one piece, ya hear? No matter what, you gotta ALWAYS keep pushing!
But Cabe’s body wasn’t responding. It was like it had forgotten how. His muscles spasmed out of his control, refusing to lift or move when he told them to. He heard a broken, pathetic whimper, and it took a short time for him to realize it had actually come from his own throat.
Sparrow – get up and PUSH!
Out of his peripheral, Cabe caught a tiny spurt of pink, barely even a spark. There was gunfire, and shouting, and the sound of metal-on-metal scraping and soles scuffing over hardwood.
And then, there was a flash of movement in front of him – a big, bleary trio of foggy, mangled filing cabinets, which all warped into one foggy, mangled filing cabinet as it arced near the ceiling and descended rapidly further into the stunned agent’s field of vision.
I... I can’t... he finally surrendered, weak and exhausted and incapable of any physical movement whatsoever, as the large piece of bulky, twisted steel was thrown toward him, closing in fast than his blurry eyes could even track.
I can’t... I can’t push anymore, Aaron...
I’m sorry...
Twenty-One
They say that when you think you’re about to die, an entire life’s worth of memories can flash before your eyes.
But there were only three memories that came rushing back to Cabe in the split second he had before the gnarled, contorted mass of paper and jagged steel that had once been a filing cabinet came down on top of him – likely to deal his battered and broken human body the final, finishing blow.
The first was, unsurprisingly, of Boone. It was unsurprising because a part of him always remembered Boone whenever he thought he could be at the end. And it was always the mornings, waking up bleary and foggy and more than just a little hungover with the afternoon sun in his eyes and the other man’s wiry, strong frame wrapped around his own from behind. Tightly, hermetically, as if he were terrified to lose his younger, less experienced boyfriend on the job someday.
Irony could be a right piss-off at times.
The second was, again somewhat unsurprisingly, of his team. Ronnie, mostly, with her bright, mischievous grin and the way she always got those silent hiccups she hated when Faraj made her laugh too hard. Faraj himself, whose family had come to America before his birth to escape religious war in the middle east, only for him to spend his entire teenagehood under religious intolerance and prejudice from the very people he now risked his life selflessly and honorably to protect. Dasilva, Gabby, the most no-nonsense bitch he knew, who had taken him under her wing and disproven his mental theory that nobody, nobody, would be a good enough partner on the job to fill the massive shoes Boone had left behind. And Flint... James Flint, the liberal Mormon globalist who had been more of a father to him in the past four years than his own sorry excuse for a sperm donor ever had, who had already played pallbearer at the funerals of too many of his agents.
And now, it was Cabe’s turn.
Briefly, he wondered if Ronnie would remember his off-handed request last summer to be cremated to AC/DC’s Thunderstruck, so loud that everyone in attendance would have to either wear ear plugs or go deaf.
There was an almighty crunch, a blur of motion, and the remains of the filing cabinet was redirected bare inches from his face clean across the room, smashing into the wall to his left with enough force to embed it into the plaster and concrete. Anchored several feet away, crouched into some semblance of a combat-ready stance with her back to him, was a small, slender, raven-haired woman in a lilac blouse and pinstripe dress slacks.
… Emiko!?
Then came the gunshots. At least three individual rounds of ammo were rapid-fired into their Assailant, pinning the luminescent Anomaly back against a bookcase. Emiko was whirling on him, one slim hand extending to seize the collars of his shirt and jacket simultaneously.
“I’m not going to be gentle,” she growled in his ear before he had time to react, “and by the way, you owe me big time for that. I broke two nails.”
Once again, Cabe had the pleasure of experiencing zero-gravity at the behest of Emiko’s enhanced strength. Up was down, left was right, and suddenly he was slung across one of the woman’s slight, skinny shoulders, which slammed repeatedly into his gut as she ran. It was hard to decipher their path given how woozy he was, and the fact that he was watching it from the point of view of the backs of Emiko’s
legs. Within seconds they’d leapt over several large obstacles, and Cabe was being dumped on the floor by the elevator.
It was Flint’s voice that addressed their Assailant, after their hail of cover had ended.
“S.S.A. Flint, of the United Nations’ World Anomaly Reconnaissance Division – we are ordering you to STAND DOWN or we WILL move to terminate, repeat: we WILL MOVE TO TERMINATE.”
Elliot... where’s Elliot...!? Cabe groaned and rolled onto his stomach, muscles shaking as he pushed himself up a little to get a better view. Flint was a good few yards in front of him, flanked by Faraj and several other armed agents, and the figure crouching at his side was Ronnie. Dasilva was with Elliot, positioned between him and their Assailant, her assault rifle locked and ready. Emiko was between the two, having immediately flocked to her boss’ side after depositing Cabe out of harm’s way.
“Cabe, no, stay down...” Ronnie was saying quietly, calmly, and he felt her arm spread across his trembling shoulders. “It’s secure, everything is secure...”
“Elliot –” Even though he knew Emiko likely stood a better chance of defending the executive against their Anomaly threat, an urgent sense of panic had ahold of his stomach, his heart, and his head, and it was dire that he get back to his post.
Another three bullets were fired in quick succession, and the Anomaly howled in pain.
“This is your LAST CHANCE to STAND DOWN!” Flint was barking, in a voice he only ever used on the field. “Or we WILL TERMINATE!”
“WRIGHT –!” From where Cabe was sprawled, he could both see and hear their Assailant’s cry, almost a desperate plea for them to have mercy and just let her do what she came here to do. She peeled herself away from the wall, a silhouette of white light bleeding blue, to crash forward onto the edge of the upturned desk in front of her.
“WRIGHT – K-KILL –!”
Apparently, Cabe wasn’t the only one currently on a hair trigger over Elliot’s perceived safety. The moment their assailant uttered that single pair of words, Emiko was darting forward and around Dasilva, bolting for the assassin sent here for her boss with a shriek of rage.
“MS. BELL!” Flint held his fire, even as the aforementioned woman set herself upon the other, more powerful Anomaly with a ferocious and frightening vengeance. The first punch sent her reeling into the wall opposite, and although their assailant attempted several blasts of energy to defend herself, she was too badly beaten down. She was like paper ready to be pulped in Emiko’s brutal hands, and it wasn’t until she was slung against the concrete wall at the far end of the level in the radiology room that Flint finally traded his sidearm out for Faraj’s assault rifle and pelted the vast area of hardwood between the two women with live fire.
“MS. BELL! ENOUGH! This is a U.N. matter, stand DOWN!”
Ronnie had finally given up nagging him to stay down low, and was helping Cabe ease himself at least onto his knees so that he was in a better position to react. Peering between Faraj and another agent, he could see Emiko; she was panting, breathless, and the look on her face was one of a person who had just been snapped back into reality after some kind of zealous trance.
Across the building, beyond where Faraj was urging Elliot with significant success to retreat behind their human barricade, Cabe watched as the now somewhat amorphous blur of harsh light wrenched itself from the small crater it had pummeled in the concrete, dropping like a brightly glowing stone to the floor. It made a noise that may have been an attempt at a scream, or even words, but which came out as a pealing, almost electronic-sounding howl. The unmistakable twitch of Faraj’s trigger finger as he left Elliot in relative shelter with Ronnie, and turned back to face what was left of their Assailant, told Cabe he was honestly considering just... putting her out of her misery.
“Where are those medics!?” Flint was demanding into his comm piece, acutely aware of not only how injured his agent was, but their Anomaly assailant too. In Cabe’s opinion, the maze of Elliot’s office was no doubt affecting their progression to the recurring floor, as it had probably done with Flint and their back-up.
A sudden sharp jerk of everyone’s attention toward the back of the building caused Cabe to flinch, his head craning to see as Ronnie’s hands placed themselves firmly on his shoulders to encourage him not to stand. Their Assailant was standing – slowly, and with great difficulty, leaning most of her weight on the wall, at least from what he could tell through the intense ball of light that now enveloped her. There were no signs of savagery or bloodthirst or even hostility in the way she moved, or the way she slouched there, completely fatigued. Flint motioned Dasilva forward, and the two more veteran agents advanced on their quarry.
“You’re doing the right thing,” urged Flint, in a slightly calmer and more understanding tone of voice as he and Dasilva carefully pressed forth, “and we’re going to make sure you’re safe and that your injuries are treated, and that you receive the the full protection of the American judiciary system for your cooperation, under the Vienna Code. But we need you to relent to us and let us take you into our custody before we can help you. Can you do that?”
From a distance, Cabe couldn’t make out any facial features within the now formless glow. He wondered if, maybe as they got closer, his comrades were able to. He wondered if they would be able to tell him later, during a debrief, the exact emotions that might have been running across it as she straightened herself up and spoke in a firm, ragged, almost statically-charged voice: “THIS – IS – WHERE IT ENDS.”
Whatever happened next, happened with a nightmare-inducing silence. The irregular ball of light bucked, spasmed, and hit the floor with the sickening, slapping crack of flesh on wood.
“Shit!” It was Dasilva who verbalized the impact of everybody’s shock, as she and Flint rushed to the downed Anomaly’s side. The intense glow of her bioluminescence was fading fast, unveiling the bloody, bullet-laced, shredded carcass that had been seconds from killing Cabe not two minutes before. Although the blue tattoo-like markings remained upon her skin, they were dulled and dark.
Faraj was stepping forward, as Cabe fought Ronnie’s stern grip on him to follow suit. “Flint – report!?” the handler called out, he and another agent extending an arm each to block Elliot from rushing forward to help assess the situation... or at least, because of his own damn curiosity.
Cabe’s head was spinning too much to stand. The peripherals of his vision had begun to vignette again, and he had no choice but to reluctantly crumple sideways onto Elliot (who had switched his attention to his bodyguard the moment Cabe tried to stand), or take another violent swandive in a floor-wards direction. “Easy, Peaches...” came the executive’s gentle whisper, and it might have been the knock to the head earlier, but Cabe swore Elliot actually sounded... concerned.
Flint was on his knees, leaning far over the bloody mess to check the woman’s pulse with two fingers against the side of her neck. Even though everyone was quiet with anticipation, apprehension, and a little shellshock, they all knew deep down what their Supervisory Senior Agent was about to announce.
“... she’s gone.”
◉
Inhale, exhale.
The recurring floor had been cleared of personnel at Flint’s command, save for himself, Agent Faraj, and W.A.R.D.’s own personal cleanup crew. Courtesy of all the soundproofing installation Elliot had done to keep the hidden level entirely secret, not a single gunshot drew outside attention, which made sweeping W.A.R.D.’s presence under the rug a hell of a lot easier.
The division’s own medics insisted on seeing to Cabe and Dasilva before they were dismissed from the scene, whereas Elliot immediately played his rich-boy-with-free-will-and-private-insurance card to remove himself from the vicinity before Cabe was even done having his blood pressure taken.
It was well after eleven before he was finally released from debriefings and – with one arm trussed up in a sling across the opposite shoulder and a firm warning from the nurse who knew him too well to change his
dressings every day and not use his left arm or hand until she had given him the all-clear – he’d scrounged a lift all the way back to Seattle with Ronnie, who had insisted on driving her own car the three hours to Portland rather than renting a vehicle when she got there. While his work with Elliot Wright was likely far from over, especially given the assassination attempt, he needed a night in his own apartment, being loved on by his own cat, and sleeping in his own bed. Or at least on his own couch, if he didn’t make it all the way to the bed, which was actually preferable to Bruce Wayne because it meant they were closer to the kitchen for breakfast. Thankfully, given what he had spent his evening enduring, Flint dismissed him and placed himself and Dasilva on Elliot as full-time security watch.
Cabe had spent the entire drive home with his eyes closed feigning sleep, except for once in Puyallup when he surfaced to use a gas station restroom – garage toilet, he had griped Britishly to himself (which he tended to do when he was in a foul mood) as he tried not to miss the urinal in his exhausted state. Ronnie had wanted to talk as soon as he came out of the attached shop with an extra-large coffee; he had wanted nothing to do with it. The last thing he wanted to do right now was talk... about anything, with anyone. He just wanted to close his eyes and choke out the voices in his head.
Inhale, exhale.
Which was pretty much what he was doing right now. He didn’t make it to his bed, or his couch; instead he found himself out on the small, frosty balcony, bundled up the familiar camping chair with his old and tattered West Ham blanket wrapped around his body. Bruce Wayne had snuggled in with him for a short time, before whining at the door until Cabe opened it so he could escape the cold. Without Batcat, the British-American agent was left relying on only the blanket for warmth; it smothered him with relative success against the chill of the late December wind as he gazed out at the Seattle skyline, which had become something of an anchor point for him whenever he was feeling lost at sea.
Black Tie: Book One of the Sparrow Archives Page 32