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Post by The Fixer on Mar 16, 2016 6:52:09 GMT -5
Dumbfounded Clue is trying to process what has happened. Some agent sent by someone named Anna is lying dead, or damn near close to it nearby. Lawrence, having worked off the ropes, managed to shoot him and is passed out at her feet. Her left arm feeling like a tree trunk, swollen from the broken wrist. Her legs are all but useless, one with the wood still sticking out of it and jiggled even worse when Steed tied her up, the other now a dull constant pain from the open wound. Wanting nothing more than to give into the darkness herself, she realizes she has very little time and few options to get both her and Lawrence out of there.
Staring off at the still burning rubble, her mind begins to work and prioritize. Shivering she knows she doesn't have much time herself. It's cold and dark. They are in the middle of nowhere as town is 20 minutes by taxicab. There had to be a tracker in that phone and there's at least a seething, feral Agent, Anne Someone, who knows where they are.
Taking a deep breath she gets to work detaching her left sleeve. It is already torn, making ripping it off easier. She uses the sleeve to tie around her right calf to try to put enough pressure on it to at least close it off a little. Screaming as the pain blooms brightly again. Working hard to stop from passing out herself, her vision starting to narrow and blur at the edges. She sort of crawl/drags herself around to grab the gun. Using her right arm and elbow to drag herself over to the agent, she doesn't bother checking for a pulse. Instead she holds the pistol to his head like he did to her and pulls the trigger. Not taking any chances she puts it to his chest over his heart and pulls it once more.
Seeing his shirt, she uses her teeth and nails and her one good arm to tear pieces off. With effort, and a steady stream of cursing she makes a tourniquet to put around the wood sticking out if her leg.
Then grabbing the cell phone off the dead agent, and knowing that she's already against the clock she dials her fail safes number. The phone makes weird screaming beeps as the secure line kicks in. When the automated voice commands authentication she speaks, hoarsely, "Sierra, Lima, one, seven, niner, whiskey, papa, bravo." The phone squelches in her ear and a male voice comes on, "Coordinates!" it demands. Clue takes a moment to remember, "uniform tango Mike wun niner ait tree, November, five tree wun zero zero, whiskey two niner wun". The voice on the other end responds "Confirmed. Agent, secondary authentication." Finding the whole thing tedious but knows why it is necessary, she snaps out "Quebec, victor, fow er, fife, one, alpha". Finally the voice on the other end says "Confirmed!". After a brief conversation she hangs up the phone, hoping the medical evacuation she ordered gets to them before more of the dead agents friends.
Pulling the battery from the phone, she crawls back over to cover Lawrence a little, and rest herself. The fire is dying down and too far away to be of any use in keeping her warm. She checks his pulse. It is present but a little weak. Praying the medical team gets there soon, she rests against him, closing her eyes. Hearing the helicopter coming, she opens her eyes.
The helicopter lands and a tactical team of agents fan out, guns drawn. Thinking she's done now, she hears them yelling at her to drop her weapon. Scared and without positive confirmation of who they are she instead points it at her own head, screaming back to them to stop or she'll shoot.
A lot of shouting and minor chaos erupts. The closest agent flips his rifle onto his back and approaches with his hands up hoping to calm the situation. Identifying himself and getting close enough that she can see the unit patch on his uniform, she relaxes and hands over the gun knowing her evac came through.
The team takes over, extracting the two wounded and now unconscious agents to Plymouth hospital.
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Post by The Fixer on Mar 16, 2016 20:11:36 GMT -5
*beep...........beep............beep........beep.........*
Groggy, still partially sedated, Clue blinks one eye into a slit. Having no idea where she is, she uses that one eye to try to make sense of the noises and smells. Deciding to close it again she tried to think....
She can't see the armed security. She can't see the machines. She can't see the bandages on her head, the cast on her wrist, any of the stitches holding her together. She can't see the tubes or wires monitoring her. She can't feel anything and wouldn't want to yet.
She gives in to the drugs pumping through her and floats back to the ether of medically induced sleep.
*.............beep...........*
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Post by W.R. Lawrence on Mar 17, 2016 13:09:04 GMT -5
Still groggy and with a splitting headache Lawrence peers out through a narrow slit in his eyelids. The room is unfamiliar and the soldier with the SA-80 unsettles him a bit. Opening his eyes slowly to allow his eyes to adjust to the light he looks down. IV lines snake about but he's not bound. He has bandages all over and his head has been swaddled with gauze. He gingerly swings his legs over the edge of the bed and tries to stand. He's shaky but standing. As he stretches a bit a nurse comes in fussing a bit that he's out of bed. He waves her off, "I'm fine, I'm fine." he rasps. "You are definitely not fine." she snaps at him. He sees a wheelchair next to the bed and staggers towards it. Sitting carefully he says, "Where is Clue?" The nurse looks at him and says "She's down the hall, resting. As you should be Captain. Back to bed with you." "I will in a moment." he protests "Right now I'm going to see Clue." he stands slowly to his feet and nearly makes it to the door before nearly falling over. The solider on guard grabs him before he hit the floor. "Thanks mate." Lawrence manages. "Look, I'll take you there if you will agree to go in the wheelchair and let me bring you right back." she offered. Nodding Lawrence sits in the chair and the nurse wheels him down the corridor.
Getting to Clue's room Lawrence is horrified by what he sees. There are so many bandages she looks like a mummy. She is sleeping but not soundly. "My God." he whispers. Using what little strength he has left Lawrence stands and shuffles over to Clue's bedside. The nurse begins to object again but Lawrence silences her with a look. Turning back to Clue he grips the bed rail to steady himself. Her hair has fallen across her face and gently he brushes it aside so he can see her. He looks her up and over and seeing the heavy bandaging on her legs he knows they won't be dancing together anytime soon. So he does the only thing he knows to do. Just like on the train he strains over and kisses her forehead gently. He sits back in the wheelchair and dismisses the protesting nurse. "I'm staying right here" he says. With an exasperated sigh she leaves the room. Lawrence positions himself close to Clue's bed and holds her hand in his.
Rapidly running out of energy. He slowly goes back to sleep in the chair, his hand gripping hers tightly. He won't be separated from her again.
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Post by thebardess on Mar 18, 2016 12:12:32 GMT -5
Myles Steede waits for about fifteen minutes after the helicopter had left before emerging from the brush where he had concealed himself. As he walks over to the body on the ground, he grudgingly admits to himself that maybe this time Vevoda and Anna had been on to something when they insisted on him being accompanied by a second agent. Brinsley had been annoying and largely incompetent, but in the end, he had served a purpose. While making his second phone call, Steede had observed Lawrence loosening his ropes. After ending the conversation, he had quickly ducked into the bushes were Brinsley was waiting, and sent the second man out to "collect the file." It had worked like a charm. The two men were similar enough in height, build, and coloring that, especially when combined with the surrounding darkness, and their confused, bewildered mental state, Clue and Lawrence had never suspected that this was not the same man. In one quick move, Steede had once again lulled the agents into a false sense of security and gotten rid of an "assistant" who, by and large, had been more hindrance than help.
Reaching the body, Steede looks down at it scornfully. "Really?" he asks the corpse. "Really? 'It's not fair?' Honestly, Brinsley, you whine like that, you deserve what you get." Bending down, he picks up his cell phone from Brinsley's chest and places another call. "Hello, Anna?"
"Myles? Myles is that you? For the love of Zosimos, what is going on?" "Yes, Anna, it's me. I'm fine. Brinsley, though...well, we won't be hearing from him again. Listen, Clue and Lawrence have been choppered out of here I'm guessing to Plymouth. I need you to call Spanner and get him to hack into their system. I need to know whatever he can give me about the agents- room number, condition, security, anything and everything, as soon as he can." "Of course. Anything else?" "Yes- save me some cherries jubilee. I won't be making dinner tomorrow." With that, Steede hangs up the phone and takes stock of his current situation.
His gun is gone, handed over to the chopper crew by Clue, but no matter. He can easily get another one, and in the meantime, he knows at least a dozen ways to kill a man with his bare hands. As he scans the clearing, his eye lights on an object not far from the body. Picking it up, he grins as he realizes what it is. "Well, well, Lawrence, old chap. Let's see what you keep stored on this phone here."
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Post by W.R. Lawrence on Mar 18, 2016 12:58:30 GMT -5
The next morning Lawrence awakes, stiff and sore in his wheelchair next to Clue's bedside. Still sleeping soundly he stands a bit easier this time. He kissed her forehead and whispered in her ear for a few moments before one of the doctors comes into the room. "How is she?" Lawrence asks. "Not good." the doctor says with a sigh. "She's fighting a massive infection from that leg wound. We're going to have to transfer her to The Royal London Hospital as they are better equipped than we are." Lawrence nods. Lawrence sits back in the chair by Clue's bed side, troubled by something he remembered right before they were picked up. "The agent I killed, he thought. He seemed different than who originally grabbed us. I shouldn't have been able to kill him that easily." With a sinking feeling, Lawrence realizes that it might have been a different person though their appearances were identical. Realizing that they were both in danger as were the others in this small civilian hospital, Lawrence picks up the room phone and calls Bellamy.
Later that afternoon Bellamy arrives in person and Lawrence lays it all out. "I need you to get her out of here now." Lawrence insists. "Somewhere where she is kept under lock and key while she heals. She is the key to this whole thing so I need her safe." Bellamy nods. "I know just the place. What about you?" Lawrence says, I'm doing alright, still nursing a concussion and I've got a couple of small wounds I'm nursing. I'll be back at fighting strength in a day or two." "Alright." Bellamy says lets transfer you both and we'll get you re-equipped and re-armed. Speaking of which I found this near the rubble of your cabin when we cleared the place." Bellamy hands Lawrence the Webley. "I've reloaded it as it appears to have seen some action." "Indeed it has, thank you. Lets get the transfer moving and by the way no electronic orders, phone calls, anything. Whoever this agent is he's very good and we have to assume he's tapped in." Lawrence warns. Bellamy nods. "I have an idea, get the doctor in here."
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Post by W.R. Lawrence on Mar 18, 2016 13:24:08 GMT -5
An hour later Clue was prepped and ready to move. Before they move her, Bellamy takes the battery out of his phone and pockets it. With the guards covering the way, Bellamy and Lawrence push Clue into the secure loading bay in the bottom of the hospital. Made for the transfer of inmates the area is heavily guarded and is designed to keep out unwanted guests. Three ambulances wait to receive her. Bellamy and Lawrence get her loaded up and the three ambulances pull out, each going to a different destination. Still unwilling to be separated from her Lawrence maintains his vigil alongside her as they bump over the rough streets.
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Post by The Fixer on Mar 18, 2016 14:28:33 GMT -5
One great mammoth pothole, the kind you might fear losing a car in, jostles the driver and his cargo.
Clue, very briefly, and due to intense pain, surfaces from her fever just enough to vaguely feel that she is swaying on a gurney.
In some far recess, beyond the intense and horrible pain, and ever increasing fever from the infection taking hold of her system, she wonders why is she swaying on the gurney.
Tears spill out of her eyes, still closed. Delirious or hallucinating, maybe both, for one brief moment her eyes flick open, her mind overwhelmed with pain and fear.
Her body, her own worst enemy, tries to move parts that aren't cooperating. From an outside perspective they can only see her body collectively spasm, pain wrenching little beads of sweat from her pores, and the tears leaking from her eyes.
Nobody knows that her mind is stuck in a weird kaleidoscope of pictures and black and faces and fire, brown coats and sound and fighting for safety against those agents sent to kill. That she relives moments of the past days between drug injections or that there is only protection in the dark, blank portions in between. Sometimes she screams silently at those she can make out and sometimes she screams for her life, for the fear, of failing the entire mission, at those that put her there, or for the memories that work their way into those moments mixing the sweet with the horrible, the happy with the gruesome and ghastly.
She knows nothing of reality and with another burst of drugs, heads back down the rabbit hole into the black. Having no idea if the people who watch her are friendly or enemy.
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Post by The Fixer on Mar 20, 2016 20:01:37 GMT -5
A grimace creases her brow. The machines still beep away, though it's become a steady white noise to her now. The effort of attempting to move a body sluggish from drugs and non-use makes her grunt audibly. Trying to shift in a bed she hasn't left in more days than she can remember. Not for lack of trying though. Drugs have a way of stealing time.
Her left arm wrapped in a blue fibreglass cast to her elbow. A few well wishes from people she doesn't yet know written for her. Her right leg stitched across the calf, sewing up the wound the explosion caused. She has snippets of time from that night, and some from the afternoon before. Bandages and stitches cover her left thigh. She can't get see the jagged pattern of the stitches below the bandages.
Gingerly she touches the left side of her face, as an itch begins. What her fingers feel there are is a very scrapped up area from temple to cheek and little scabs everywhere. It's reminiscent of a similar wound she once experienced on her leg from sliding into third on a particularly fantastic hit to left-centre field in a ball tournament when she was young. The memory of that hit and winning the tournament make her sigh and smile. The smile cracks open a few of the tiny scabs that drip blood a little. It feels like liquid running and makes her audibly protest.
She's uncomfortable in the bed. More though, a small vein of fear runs underneath. There are armed guards in the room with her and she is alone. Looking around she finds a few vases of flowers nearby. Happy, various coloured daisies mixed with tulips. Beside those a gorgeous spray of fragrant orange and peach roses. And, her absolute favourite, a beautiful spray of exotic orchids sunning themselves in the window.
On the table beside the bed are cards from a few people. Picking one up, she realizes there are too many cards for the people who would know where she is. Picking one up, she reads the message the card company printed. Inside is a generic note from them and a signature she can't read. What she hasn't yet registered are the additional markings within.
Her mind is still trying to piece together where she is. At this point, someone has thought to bring in flowers, and send a card but she doesn't identify these as anything more than what they are.
Pressing the button to call a nurse results in a guard moving to block entrance of a man. As he gets closer she recognizes him as her handler. After a conversation with him to fill her in on her injuries and rehab requirements, she learns she's under surveillance but has no idea where in the world she is. "It's for your own safety." She is told.
And it doesn't matter. Rehab apparently will be taking place in yet another location. The biggest shocker to her is that it's been nearly 30 days since the explosion.
30 days. Gone. Most of it so drugged she couldn't be considered conscious but not in a coma either. What on earth has been happening? Her handler is scarce with details. He leaves, saying he'll catch her up once she's had a little more time to get used to being with less drugs.
Questions start swirling.
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Post by W.R. Lawrence on Mar 21, 2016 9:16:19 GMT -5
The diesel fumes choke Lawrence as he rides in the back of the old truck. After another run in with Steede he had to make a quick getaway. As he rode he thought back to the last time he saw Clue 3 weeks before. After evacuating Plymouth Hospital he spent a week with her recovering and getting back to fighting strength. But even in their new home, Lawrence knew Steede would eventually find them. With little choice Lawrence left a letter for Clue when she awoke. He explained that he was going out to put pressure on Vevoda and in doing so hoped to draw Steede away from her. Before he left the hospital he left a roll of cash with the doctor and asked that fresh flowers be put in her room twice a week until he returned or she was moved. He couldn't risk doing it himself, lest she be discovered. He also left a note with Bellamy for Clue in case he did not return. Additional instructions were also left. He rearmed himself from the base armory and caught a supply flight back to London and then took the train south again to Wereham. He stopped by Clouds Hill to see what was left.
Nothing. The cottage was gone. All he has were his memories now. The small shed nearby had sustained damage but was still standing. Making his way through the rubble over to it, Lawrence pulled back some loose floorboards and exposed a small safe buried in the ground. Turning the knobs he remembers the last time he opened it. 4 years before his only brother had died on some far off mission for MI-6 and his affects had been returned. Lawrence placed a few items in this safe in the event they were needed. The time had finally come to retrieve them. Brushing the dust away he retrieved a Defilade backpack with armor, a cell phone, a box of ammo for the Webley and a watch. Making his way back to Wareham he bought a train ticket to Calais. His first stop, Vevoda Armament Works.
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Post by W.R. Lawrence on Mar 21, 2016 9:46:03 GMT -5
After a week of surveillance Lawrence decided to make his move. During the night shift for the factory Lawrence neutralized a roving guard and stole his credentials and uniform. Making his way into the plant he moved largely unnoticed. Moving into the administrative block he killed another guard and retrieved the keys to the main computer room. Accessing the mainframe he downloaded files regarding the Um Al Ayish test site. After completing the transfer he attempted to access Vevodas personal files, looking for any information as where to find him. Whether it was trying to access the files or the discovery of the sentry's body he'll never know but an alarm began to blare in the background. Outside he could see guards running around and quickly Lawrence decided to slip away in the confusion. Deciding to send Steede a message, Lawrence rigged a grenade he found on one of the guards. Pulling the pin he held the spoon in place with a rubber band that he tore just slightly. Placing it carefully under the main server tower he pocketed the thumb drive he ran out of the Administrative Building and followed a group of guards moving towards the front gate. The guards began to search the grounds looking for the intruder, Lawrence quietly slipped out from behind them and moved down the street, discarding his uniform and rifle. Ducking down an alley he hears a small explosion as the grenade goes off blowing out the office windows and destroying the computer system.
"Well, that ought to get his attention." Lawrence says to himself. Moving back to the inn he quickly collects his things and catches a train headed south. Next destination: Italy.
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Post by The Fixer on Mar 24, 2016 12:12:43 GMT -5
The doctor starts up the saw. It is buzzing away when he turns to her, a wicked look on his face. Approaching, he restrains her arm, so she doesn't flinch, insisting it won't hurt at all. He begins his work. Taking his time. Taking pleasure in it. She is oddly silent and watches him work.
5 minutes later they are both ecstatic and stare at it. Happy! Maybe it’s because she's still riding on a few painkillers. Maybe it's because of his infectious energy. They are both giddy and stare at the appendage, and the carnage. Laughing together, almost maniacally, she lifts her left arm to marvel at how skinny it has gotten from being wrapped up in the cast. Finally starting to feel like she's able to move again, they try a few manipulations to test the muscle atrophy level, and make sure the repair will hold. Surprisingly, of all her injuries, this is the one that was the easiest to heal, and set. No pins or plates were needed. Now the rehab work can begin in earnest.
Getting the strength back will take time. Specialists have been lined up. First order of business, a massage therapy appointment with a woman Clue is sure they found in some Russian backwater somewhere. She's all business; working out the muscles in Clues arm, like some German soldier is captured and the massage therapist is in charge of torture interrogation. The session includes an entire upper body "massage" though it truly feels like a weird new interrogation technique.
After what feels like a lifetime, and several strangled protests from Clue, the therapist leaves. Sadistically satisfied at the pain she's inflicted. Despite the torture of the session Clue is finally starting to feel better, if not bruised all over again.
She gets wheeled back to her prison of a room, knowing shortly she'll be moved, and several more of these therapists will be working with her to get her legs going again. She takes some time to re-read the letter she found from Lawrence. Then smelling the sunny yellow roses that have replaced the daisies, she closes her eyes on the memory of their impromptu dance in the square, the smells from the bakery are almost real.
Smiling at the memory, and knowing that while she is physically unable to help out, she sets to work with the only thing providing solace these days; the beefed up files from her handler, the additional information from Lawrence, and a mystery package received a few days ago with what appear to be surveillance photos and intelligence memos, among other things. Grabbing a notebook a nurse was kind enough to find for her, she sets to work. Before getting too far into the files, she stops to wonder what Lawrence has been up to. It had been a while since the last time she saw him. Hoping he is well, staying safe, and putting in some leg work, she gets back to her own task.
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Post by W.R. Lawrence on Mar 28, 2016 10:28:33 GMT -5
Italy had proven a bust. After a week of surveillance and an botched attempted incursion Lawrence had to escape quickly, jumping into the back of an old farm truck headed north. He didn't see Steede personally but Lawrence was sure he was watching, waiting for him to drop his guard. As the old truck rattled and smoked its way north Lawrence hoped that wherever Clue was she was doing well and that she could decipher some of the info he had passed along to his handlers. Finally, after a few hours Lawrence hopped off the truck on the outskirts of Milan. Walking down the dark streets he found an all night convenience store and grabbed a bite to eat. Sitting on an old wooden bench in front of the store he stared out across the well lit but empty parking lot while the neon sign behind him flashed and buzzed. Where to go now? With no new information he pondered his next move. He knew Steede will be on him again soon, where could he go that he would have the advantage? All at once it hit him. Lawrence called a cab and headed for the airport. As the lights of the city flashed by Lawrence felt a new determination burning in him. It was time to get out in front and change the game. Time to go back to where it all started for him.
Buying his ticket and getting onto the aircraft Lawrence settled uneasily into a deserted first class seat. Setting the Defilade pack under his feet he buckled his belt and leaned the seat back to get some rest. He would need everything he could get. A few hours later he changed planes in Amsterdam and then again in Bahrain. 24 hours later Lawrence stared out of the scratched window of an old overburdened cargo aircraft and saw the city below. Spiraling down on approach, Lawrence felt a warm feeling in his chest, he was home. The bullet riddled sign over the pock marked terminal said it all.
"Welcome to Baghdad".
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Post by The Fixer on Mar 29, 2016 11:59:02 GMT -5
3 hospitals, 4 countries, 2 different hair colours, 4 different sets of coloured contacts, and 5 days later, Clue finally arrives at the rehabilitation center. The Védoda agents were getting better at stealth. Thankfully the teams handling the transfers were just that much better.
Settling into the secluded, secret center Clue is passed her rehab schedule from a burly looking woman, who appears to be the twin of the last “therapist” she saw before transfer. Knowing the recovery is going to be grueling, painful, and downright torturous at times, she takes a brief pause to enjoy the breath-taking scenery from her window.
So far, she’s managed to identify several areas that contain coded messages from the files. Getting down to actually breaking them has been a little more difficult with the shell games happening. She’s hoping her handlers can come through with a few pieces of prime tech for her. Until then, her brain and time are her best assets.
Under it all, a longing to have someone to bounce ideas around with, and help put the pieces in an order that makes sense, and so she actually has someone to talk to nags at her. Thanks to the drugs she is having trouble remembering the last time she saw Lawrence alive. She is confident he is out there, in the world, taking on Vévoda agents alone, from the letter and notes he left, and the fact that someone has been replacing the flowers in her room from instructions left by him. Where he is will remain a mystery to her for now. The decision to compartmentalize that information and keep it from her, not her own, but necessary to keep them both safe.
Now that she’s been moved though, the communication, and little reminders will likely stop. Leaving her alone with her work, and her therapy, not to mention a deeply ingrained hatred for Vévoda, and that woman named Anna. Anna, being the only name she can cling to that has at least a tangible thread to tug on, given the conversation the agents and Lawrence had with her. Anna, a personal vendetta against the woman who ordered those agents to blow them both up, who fuels the desire to not just walk again, but ensure her therapy includes a healthy amount of physical training beyond what she’s ever done before. And a sweet little thought of being able to get close enough to that woman to unleash the beast growing inside her.
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Post by W.R. Lawrence on Apr 4, 2016 10:40:16 GMT -5
Stepping out of the aircraft onto the freshly paved ramp, Lawrence noted with satisfaction the repairs being done on the airport. Walking across the tarmac he quickly broke into a sweat as somehow even at 0100 it was still a stifling 40 degrees C. After passing through passport control he was stopped by a security officer who whisked him quickly into an interview room with no explanation. "Damn" Lawrence muttered in the empty space. An hour passed slowly until the door finally opened. A large man in Arab dress with a smile as large as the open desert greeted him. "Lawrence my friend! You come for a visit and do not call?" "Damn it Mustaffah!" Lawrence laughed. The two men embraced. Walking through the empty service corridors Mustaffah asks, "What brings you back so soon my friend?" "Old business, my friend. Old business." Lawrence said quietly. Mustaffah nodded his head in understanding. "Let us take a ride where we might talk. Do you have anywhere to stay yet?" "Nope, just got here." Lawrence replied. Smiling broadly again Mustaffah said, "Excellent! You will be a guest in my house for as long as you wish."
The car ride back to Mustaffah's home was a long and slow one. The Land Rover wound its way down the newly paved streets and through the security checkpoints of the Green Zone with some difficulty as a recent attack had everyone on edge. As he rode Lawrence explained his current mission. "So it is true? We have heard rumor of such things for years but never gave it any thought." Mustaffah remarked. "Yeah and I have to get in there." Lawrence said flatly. "The situation in Fallujah is not good my friend. We are regaining control of the region but things are far from stable." Mustaffah warned. Lawrence nodded silently.
Pulling into Mustaffah's well guarded compound, Lawrence started to yawn as his traveling finally caught up with him. He informed his host of the potential for a not so friendly visitor from Vevoda who might be looking for him. Mustaffah notified the Captain of the Guard and had him increase patrols. After being shown to his room Lawrence and Mustaffah agreed to talk some more in the morning to develop the next course of action. As he laid down, Lawrence felt his eyes begin to close and his last conscious thought was of Clue and wondering what she was doing at that exact moment.
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Post by The Fixer on Apr 4, 2016 12:46:05 GMT -5
Sweat dripping in her eyes, she blows wayward hairs out of her face. Who knew a simple squat could be so taxing to the body? Her current therapist – drill sergeant more like – has been counting “One!” for the last 30 minutes. Teeth gritted, daggers of death flying from her eyes, a steady stream of curses in three separate languages, muttered under her breath, she shakily performs yet another “ONE!” for the soon-to-be-dead trainer. He is seriously lucky they took her service weapon away and it is right now hidden somewhere in the facility.
Her legs have been utterly useless for a long time. With the wounds healing, and the blessing from the doctors to start moving again, the simple act of walking was enough to fatigue her. Now this S.E.A.L. Master Chief wannabe is barking out directions and insults that could rival the best. It appears to be doing the trick though. Muscles are tracking horribly. Joints are protesting loudly. Body visibly shaking, she isn’t giving up on this. Thankfully they added in yoga and a little ballet training, to help elongate and stretch things out. Though, with the caliber of training in this session, she’s fairly certain neither of those two “relaxation” modalities will be calming or relaxing. She’s pretty sure they have a Russian Prima Ballerina coming in to work with her…or at least that is her current fear.
Her mind, having wandered from its current torture session is snapped back brutally, as the trainer screams “Enough!” at her and points to the physio table nearby. The only thing worse that trying to perform a squat for the last 30 minutes, is the massage therapist coming up right behind to strip the knots and scar tissue from her legs like someone trying desperately to steam-roll asphalt flat with their forearms. Excruciatingly painful, yet completely effective and making a world of difference, her mind leaves her body to work through breathing away the pain.
Her only solace for the day is a mellow Japanese acupuncturist that follows this next hour of manipulation torture. Tiny little needles of bliss stuck all over her, provide a wonderful relief to the screaming pain. And, an added bonus, a seriously deep nap while they work their magic. All she can think, before the massage begins is “Please let me live through this next hour!”
During her thoughts are scattered. Knowing that all of this is necessary doesn’t stop her from wishing her partner was around. If nothing else, to save her from the torture she’s currently enduring, and maybe whisk her away to some beautiful countryside somewhere. As the session begins she lets her mind float on the daydream of that afternoon, so long ago, with Lawrence.
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