Strahov Archives

Forward, turn right, past the grimy pillar and forward again; his bare feet moved constantly over the filthy, tiled floor. Around and around in unending circles, the cold never penetrating the layer of dirt that encrusted his calloused soles and thickened toenails. He felt no chill through his thin orange overalls, not even at the patches and splits made by many long years of wear and tear. He felt no pain from the tight restraints which held his arms firmly against his body, nor from the ragged wounds caused by the leather rubbing at his wrists. He felt no fear at the sounds echoing in distant halls and corridors, and eerie screams that pierced the stifling melancholy around him. He felt nothing at all, but his own sorrow.

It was impossible to say how long he'd been moving—time had no meaning in this underground prison. He'd been here for longer than the remains of his brain would allow him to consider. It wouldn't let him have much beyond a few scant memories. But the images that came and went in his mind, he couldn't be sure were memories at all. They were just moving pictures that he couldn't identify, places he didn't recognise, maybe they were even scenes from films, rather than his former life. A pretty middle-aged woman with honey coloured hair, smiling and pushing a stray lock back from her face as she slapped an eager arm away from around her waist. Two young boys shouting to a happy barking dog that bounded back and forth, as they kicked a ball about on a daisy strewn lawn. A scruffy man holding a spanner, grunting as he struggled to free the joint of a broken pipe, in a neat blue bathroom. A white van pulling up beside a modest town house in a quiet street. And many other things which had no meaning to him. All he knew was pain, and a fear of the men in white coats who had brought it to him.

His cell had been empty, save for a rusty bed to which he'd been strapped. When he hadn't been restrained he'd been in a larger room, full of strange lights and noises, and bad things being done to him. Things that hurt. Tall dark figures in black, pointing guns at him and shouting, prodding him with sticks that burned, and pushing him in the direction they wanted him to go. And the white coated men, with sharp metal tools that made him bleed and cry, and he didn't understand why. He'd known once but it was too frightening, and his head wouldn't tell him what it was again.

Then something had changed. It went dark, then there were loud noises and a big growling dog. It ran into his world and made all of the tall, dark figures leave. They'd fired their guns, run round and screamed, and then had all disappeared. And the white coated men too, were gone. Except for one with a purple face and red around his neck and chest, but he lay still on the floor and never moved. Just smelled bad. For a while the man in the orange suit was alone, shuffling about in circles because there was nowhere for him to go. Until the creepy grey people came.

They didn't hurt him—just looked and moved away. And wandered around quietly, like he did. He could hear their grunts and heavy breathing, but couldn't see their faces. Thick bandages covered their heads, wrapped around like Egyptian mummies. And they'd broken their leather restraints open, leaving the straps trailing on the floor behind them as they walked. But not one ever broke open his restraints to free him. He was still a prisoner. They'd violently destroyed everything else instead; tables and chairs, light fittings, anything they could reach—they'd even opened large holes in the ceiling of the dining room, allowing damaged cables to fall and shower the rooms with pretty, crackling sparks. The locks on the cell doors had been smashed too, but there were only beds to overturn inside.

And for a while after the havoc, they mostly settled down and it was almost quiet again. The scary dog came and went sometimes, through gratings in the walls which it had clawed open, and he hid from it when he heard it coming. It scared him a lot, but the grey men didn't seem scared enough to hide. Every now and then he'd hear one shriek when it was bitten, and get covered in something wet and red. Then be dragged, struggling into a vent, with the screams stopping soon after. The dog liked eating grey men, and left a lot of red stuff lying on the floor. The orange man scraped some of it up, when he was hungry too. It wasn't nice, but there was nothing else to eat. And he had no company apart from the weird grey people, and the fleeting images in his brain.

He wanted it all to stop. The rooms around him were cold and lonely, and he was suffering.

Then one day there was someone else, someone new. Someone who hadn't liked the grey people attacking him, and had shot them all dead. A man who had stopped and stared at the mass of bloody stitches and misery in dirty overalls in front of him, with a mixture of pity and disgust on his face. But the new man wouldn't shoot him as well, when he'd tried to ask. Standing in front of him, looking with longing at the mercy he could give, each time he attempted to plead for an end to his pain, only a series of low breathy grunts and moans passed through his lips. No words came forth to tell the man what he wanted. What was left of his mind was no longer connected to his voice, and no-one could have guessed at what he wanted.

Tears poured silently down his face when the man with the gun went away, leaving him alone, shuffling around in the gloom once more.

~

It had been a little after six when Robert Stansel went to his last job of the day. An emergency call out to a badly leaking water pipe in a factory kitchen across the city, and the woman on the phone had sounded frantic. There was water gushing all over the floor she'd said, and it was already dripping through to the one below, where there was delicate and expensive machinery. If anything was damaged, her boss would be livid—he had a vile temper, and might fire her when he found out. What was she to do but call a plumber in such an emergency?

Although he was already on his way home, he didn't like to leave a customer in distress, and had agreed to go over and fix it straight away. It didn't sound like a big problem, just a quick pipe replacement job which shouldn't take more than half an hour. Stopping by the roadside for a minute, he pulled his mobile from the top pocket of his orange overalls, and phoned his wife to let her know that he was going to be late.

She gently rebuked him—he was too kind for his own good. Always off to help people after work, when he was supposed to be finished and at home. Dinner was almost ready, and it would be ruined if she left it in the oven any longer. And the boys had been complaining to her for food since they'd arrived home from school, and trying to pinch snacks from the biscuit tin. She couldn't make them wait until later to eat, they were hungry now. Stansel laughed and insisted that they go ahead with their meal, and his wife promised to try and save something from the eager appetites of their two sons, for him to have when he got home.

Sighing as he glanced at the photograph of his family, taped to the back of his phone case—his wife, a pretty woman with honey coloured hair, his two growing boys, and their spaniel Pippa—he wished that his colleague Thomas wasn't at home off ill. He wouldn't have minded a last minute call like this. There was no rush for him to be home on time, what with being young free and single, and having no commitments but to himself and his work.

Pulling up in an empty yard in front of a large, almost featureless brick building, Stansel reached into the back of the van for his tool bag, before walking around the side wall to another yard, overlooking a neighbouring warehouse. The green door at the back of the factory, the woman had said. It took him a minute to find with the building being so large, and there was something intimidating about the silence of the place. A factory this size must employ hundreds of people, but there was no suggestion that there was anyone inside at all. No cars parked nearby, no sound of machinery, nothing.

A slight prickling sensation began to creep up his spine as he knocked on the door. And barely a moment passed before it was opened. The woman had been waiting for him. She was pale and slender, sporting a straight black bob which stopped just past her jaw line. And her clothing was most peculiar—long black gloves, even longer black boots, and a tailored turquoise dress that looked more like a laboratory coat. Unusual attire for factory work.

"Ah!" she said, in an accent that he didn't recognise. "You must be the plumber."

A strange smile played across her lips, making him feel even more nervous, and reluctant to stay. But he couldn't bring himself to leave a customer with a problem, so instead, nodded and handed her his card.

"Come in, Mr. Stansel, your timing is perfect," she purred, her smile deepening as she closed the door behind him.

"You are exactly what I needed."

I was in Baltimore, a city I didn't know at all, in the first bar I found. My parents had moved out here from Salt Lake City almost ten years earlier, but I had never visited them.

After the wake I had walked without aim until I ended up here, slumped on a stool with both elbows on the bar, staring at the hot tip of my cigarette as it edged towards my fingers. The look on my face must have warned the bartender against trying to coax conversation from me. My second Jack Daniel's arrived silently in a squat round glass, replacing the crumpled bill I had laid on the bar. Until that song began I had hardly noticed music playing, just barely registering the sounds around me through a fog of disbelief. But this song was different.

A few simple bars of acoustic guitar, and then the rumbling, dustbowl voice of Johnny Cash joined them. I recognised that voice immediately from years of my mother playing his scratchy old records in our house in Utah when I was a child. Even my father, who didn't care much for popular music of any kind, could sometimes be heard humming along from behind the big dark door to his office. But Cash's voice was sad now, sad and tired and old, and it caught me by surprise to hear the sorrow in my own heart coming through in his words. It took a few more moments before I realised that I already knew this song.

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real.

I looked up sharply at the jukebox as though some trick were being played on me. Johnny Cash, the Man in Black of country and western? Singing Nine Inch Nails? I sat up and listened harder.

The needle tears a hole
That old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything.

I heard those words and it was as though the last fifteen years just dropped away. Back in Utah, I was a modern kid struggling in a world of secrecy and tradition, part of a sect that I barely understood, told to obey the rules of a God I didn't believe in. Nine Inch Nails played a large and loud part in the years of my teenage rebellion. I felt a strong connection to the music, with its unrelenting intensity that bordered on viciousness, and to Trent Reznor himself, whose voice resonated with the same pain and despair I felt when I looked at my surroundings. His rage was my rage. And when my anger at my father got too much for me and I left home, I even took the singer's name as my own, becoming Kurtis Trent. This song, Hurt, had reflected perfectly how I felt at that time: broken, misunderstood and all alone in the world. What I failed to realise was how much I hurt others in return.

What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end.

My whole body felt suddenly hollow. There was a black void inside my chest that felt as though it could suck all of the world into it and yet never be filled. The truth loomed over me, stark and cruel: I no longer had a father; he was gone forever, and with him a part of my soul. I would have to live the rest of my life knowing that I had broken our bond. As I stared into the whiskey I realised how my absence from his life must have crushed him. He was not an emotional or expressive man, and I had hated him for his unkindness, but now I saw that I had grown into an unkind, inexpressive man myself, and I still felt this pain acutely. My father's only son left his life, and did so willingly, something that must have wounded him deeper than I could ever have imagined in my bullish, angry teens.

You could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt.

Cash's voice echoed around the dark chamber within me like a desert wind, enhancing the emptiness rather than filling it. Hot tears stung my eyes but I refused to let them fall. There I was, a man once again alone in the world, left with the legacy of a father I had rejected. A legacy I could no more abandon than I could embrace it willingly. All I had fought against in my past, my ancestry, my gifts, the very blood that ran through my veins, and now I stood facing it once again. It had all been for nothing. I couldn't escape who I was, not with a fake name or a French passport or a long line of killings. If only I had stayed and been the man my parents wanted me to be then I would not be so drastically unprepared for the task that now awaited me.

If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way.

The song continued, guitar and piano audibly shaking now under the assault of Cash's hands, the strings of both instruments trembling as though an almighty storm were brewing. I looked at the backpack on the seat beside me, thinking of the package that lay inside. It contained a weapon I had expected never to lay eyes nor hands on ever again. A symbol of my youth and the order—the family—I had abandoned. Although it was out of sight I could feel its connection to me, hear its whisper in my hidden senses. I knew it would respond to my touch the way it had back then, knew the old power would flood back into me as soon as my fingers slid through the holes in that warm, magical metal. But I was afraid, and I was alone. As I drained my glass and swallowed the last of the sourness, I understood that I would not survive this storm without my anger, the rage that comes out of senseless loss.

The rage of being hurt.

Petrified twigs and dry leaves crunched underfoot, as the young woman breathlessly hurtled through the undergrowth, running for her life. Her pursuers were fast and merciless, and bounded after her with the scantest effort, their leaps and strides closing the gap between them with ease as they raced after their quarry. Eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase, they bore down on their exhausted victim as she neared a space in the trees ahead, hoping to find a path of escape, or at the very least a way to lose them for long enough to allow her to regain the advantage. Under normal circumstances, she'd have simply shot the creatures dead, but in a moment of foolhardy distraction, she'd been ambushed by a whole pack of slavering reptiles who'd appeared from the hidden depths of the jungle, as if by magic. Two or three could still be dealt with under such circumstances—she was armed with a hunting knife, a twelve-bore shotgun that could blow a man's head clean off from more than fifty feet away, and her trusty 9mm twin pistols, but even these had proven little use when surprised by seven velociraptors all at once. Only violent death would put an end to this pursuit, and Lara fervently hoped that it wouldn't be hers.

Not for the first time in her adventuring, Lara wondered what she'd allowed herself to become involved in—nobody had ever mentioned that she was likely to encounter dinosaurs. Her briefing had been short and simple—fly to Peru, gain access to a remote valley in the jungle, locate the lost tomb of Qualopec, recover a fractured piece of an artifact called the Scion. Easy. She'd relished this opportunity to treasure-hunt again—the exotic mystery of such a place always appealed to her, and she considered a job of this kind both a challenge, and a pleasure. A loner by nature, Lara enjoyed the solitude that accompanied these barely habitable parts of the world, and knew that she was on this occasion, likely to be the first person to set foot in this valley for many hundreds of years. Taking care to consider the potential difficulties that lay ahead in her journey, she carried a compact medical kit, and an assortment of useful items in her backpack—a compass, flares, water purifying tablets, and enough ammunition to deal with any rogue animals that may be lurking somewhere in the shadows of the dense vegetation, into which she was bound.

Lara's employer on this occasion, one Jacqueline Natla, had given her use of her own private jet, to take her to the nearest stretch of civilisation to her destination. From the impoverished shantytown that lay several miles from the valley's edge, she'd had to walk—the roads in the area were little more than beaten tracks of cracked and dusty earth, compressed into long trails of brownness which vanished into the overgrown distance. Thick tropical forest surrounded the man-made clearing, its dense rain-soaked leaves and shrubbery giving way to unnumerable stout trunks behind, as the tree line deepened into darkness, beyond the little village that survived on the breadline, dependant on its hunter-gatherers for sustenance and protection. Lara had spent less than an hour here, so keen was she to delve into the wilds of adventure.

The unexplored valley had been easy to find—all she'd had to do was head east, until she was stopped in her tracks by a sharp drop into a vast gorge. The ground sheered away almost vertically, providing a vista that was simply spectacular. Lush greens and brilliant blues filled Lara's sight—the unbroken canopy of treetops carpeted the floor far below, interrupted only by the faint grey line of the horizon, which gave way into an azure sky that flooded the panorama with a warm, cloudless radiance. Not even the vaguest breeze threatened to disturb the tranquil scene, and she'd stood for a few minutes in quiet appreciation of the beauty that lay before her eyes. And there was but one way into this majestic grandeur.

The cliff was more than two hundred feet in height, and her climb down its craggy, lichen covered surface had been hard work to say the least, but after a couple of hours of sweating and panting, Lara dropped down onto the loose gravel at the bottom, and sat with her back to the stone to rest her tired muscles for a few minutes. After a swig of water from her leather hip-flask, she continued onwards into the gloom, hacking her way through the branches and vines, until the way became somewhat easier, as the tree canopy blocked out almost all of the sunlight, and the jungle floor sported less and less growth as a result.

Strange sounds filled the stifling, humid air—insects flitted and buzzed about their tiny lives, and every so often a peculiar birdcall would sound, its cheerfully coloured owner searching for a suitable mate, or challenging the call of a rival, but what struck Lara as unusual, was the distinct lack of larger animals. Shyness and timidity were often qualities found in forest mammals, but in spite of this, there should have been some evidence of their activity. Pawprints perhaps, or patches of bare earth trampled into the fallen leaves and mulch that littered the ground beneath the trees. But there was no sign of anything larger than some small green lizards that graced the odd branch, relaxing in the warm air. And it was this puzzle upon which she had been concentrating, when she'd been ambushed.

Her attackers had stalked her through the jungle in silence, keeping sufficient pace to avoid drawing her attention, but enough to enable them to surround her completely before making a more aggressive move. Charged from all sides at once, Lara had no time to draw the pistols from her holsters, before she found herself lashing out against the claws and teeth that struggled to get a hold on her flailing limbs. She kicked out in rage at the rough leathery hides, angry with herself for letting her guard down. Fending off the dripping jaws with one arm, it was all that she could do to reach one of her pistols, and jam it into the nearest yellowy eye, before pulling the trigger.

The fleshy sphere exploded, and with it, the brain—blood and transparent, viscous fluid trickled from the hole in the animal's skull, and the sound of the gunshot startled the others for long enough to force them to back off. But they were far from unintelligent, and it didn't take long for them to regroup and attack again. Lara didn't waste any time. There were too many to take on in such an exposed area—she would need to get to a place which would afford her an advantage. Somewhere that could offer protection to her flanks, but give a good line of sight to assist her aim with a more substantial weapon. Unless she was very close to these creatures, her pistols wouldn't be too much use—the thickness of their skin had seemed much like rhinoceros hide, and a small handgun bullet would simply ricochet off, leaving barely as much as a graze. No, she would need to use the shotgun—the twelve-bore could penetrate quarter inch sheet steel at close range, and would certainly do the job here. But finding a place that would give her the time to use it wouldn't be easy in this terrain.

As she ran, her mind raced—what were these creatures? They appeared to be reptilian, but were larger than any known lizard. And moved far faster than any crocodile could on land. Their excited squeaks and growls were unlike any that she'd ever heard before—an inhuman language that enabled them to outsmart their prey. The reason why there were no other animals in this environment was now shockingly clear.

Blood rushing through her ears with such vigour that it drowned out all other sounds, a frightening memory surfaced in the back of her brain. She had seen something like these creatures before, in a book about dinosaurs. As a child she'd been obsessed with history and archaeology, a passion that had grown with her into her adulthood, and spent hour upon hour reading with fascination about ancient lands and civilisations, much to her parent's annoyance. Steadfastly ignoring their attempts to encourage an interest in more genteel pursuits, she had for a short while become absorbed in all manner of prehistoric studies. And it was in one of many of these books, that she'd first lain eyes upon what now appeared to be chasing her through this jungle.

But was it really possible that dinosaurs had somehow survived in this hostile and challenging environment?

Unwilling to stop and find out, Lara raced onward through the thickening undergrowth, her limbs becoming leaden with every step, and her breathing now so laboured, that every inhalation sent sharp pains through her bronchial passages. Just as her lungs reached what felt like bursting point, fate lent her a helping hand—light pierced the shadows ahead, and the forest suddenly opened out into a shallow, craggy depression in the ground, that continued for a short way before abruptly ending at the edge of another, shorter cliff. A mere few seconds ahead of the hungry pack, she had no real time to think, and lunged over the precipice without hesitation—catching the lip with one hand as she fell, her body slammed hard into the rock, winding her enough to loosen her grasp. Not such a good decision.

The growling grew louder, and a dozen snarling, leathery faces appeared over the edge of the cliff, snapping at the exhausted woman just out of their reach, who was gradually losing her hold. Panting in fear as much as weariness, Lara struggled to hold on, her fingers probing for a better hold so that she could climb down and away from the eager jaws that refused to acknowledge that she was no longer on the menu. Disappointed eyes watched her climb down into the tree line below, her legs trembling with fatigue. But as she neared the upper branches, a careless grip broke away a piece of the moss-covered structure, and she dropped like a stone through the greenery, her fall only broken by the vines and creepers that adorned the sturdy boughs, stretched out as if they meant to catch her.

Hanging limp, just above the layer of decomposing leaves that littered the earth, she took the opportunity to rest, and regain a semblance of her former composure. The hunting knife quickly freed her from her impromptu hammock, and she lowered her feet to the floor with as much grace as she could muster. There were no broken bones, just a fresh assortment of bruises and grazes across her arms and legs, where nature had seen fit to hamper her flight through the jungle. Nothing that a little cool water couldn't soothe sufficiently to allow her journey to continue—now on the defensive, Lara had no intention of going on without loading the shotgun, and taking more care to stay guarded, and pay greater attention to her surroundings. There was no way that she wanted to be caught by surprise again.

This lower part of the jungle both looked and felt different—the gnarled trunks around her seemed a fair degree older than the others, and stood further apart. Smaller shrubs and flowers dotted the landscape, and there were large open areas that gave Lara freedom to move without feeling as though there might be something nasty waiting to surprise her around every corner. It was beautiful and held an air of tranquillity, but somehow a sense of menace pervaded the calm—fingers tight around the barrel of the shotgun, she made certain to keep her wits about her, as she searched for the remains of the ancient burial construct, hidden somewhere amongst the vast expanse of unexplored utopia.

After a short rest with her back to a low granite outcrop, Lara consulted Natla's map and drew the conclusion that the ruins were close by—perhaps two or three hours away from her current position. Tucking it back into her backpack, and taking a final swig from her almost empty hip-flask, she was about to head east toward her destination, when a faint tremor caught her attention.

The ground shook every other second or so, a tiny shock wave resonating with every thud of a heavy something onto the earth. The noise grew louder, as did the pounding of Lara's heart, and she knew that whatever was approaching, was far from good. With each echoing impact, the world vibrated around her vision, as though she were watching the scene through a television screen, from the comfort and safety of her home. But experience told her that there was little protection to be had here, and she hid behind the thickness of a fallen, creeper covered trunk, while watching, waiting, for the source of this terrible sound to appear. From somewhere still beyond her sight, a screeching bellow sounded, piercing the fading sunshine.

Trepidation seeping through Lara's veins, the roaring confirmed her fear that something large and frightful was coming—she gripped the twelve-bore so tightly that her knuckles turned white, and the circulation in her tired hands slowed enough to chill her fingertips. Struggling to load the weapon, and knowing that she would only have one clear shot before needing to reload, her nervousness did nothing but impede her usual deft manner, and she fumbled with the cartridges, dropping one into the layers of fallen leaves around the decaying tree. A brief glance toward the open end of the short valley amongst the trees, showed her that she had no more time to find it—speed and ferocity in giant reptilian form, lunged out of the gloom and headed straight for her. It was a tyrannosaur.

A sharp gasp was all that she could manage, before instinct took over. Adrenaline pumping, she sprinted back to the cover of the trees, barely managing to stay clear of the powerful snapping jaws that could almost swallow her whole, as the animal bit and growled at its potential meal with hungry determination. Only just reaching the forest ahead of the monster, she grabbed frenetically at her pistols, swinging round to fire at the creature's underbelly as it crashed heavily into the ageing timber in front of her. Few shots were required to prove their futility—it would take much more fire-power to penetrate the scaly bulk of its muscular frame, the bullets carving nothing more than a shallow graze in the rough hide, that was more reminiscent of armour-plating. Lara ducked beneath a branch to avoid the flailing fore-limbs, as once again, it smashed into the trees in its violent attempts to reach its prey—branches and vines shattered from the force of the onslaught, threatening to crush the limber young woman themselves, and sending a cloud of flying leaves and debris throughout the humid atmosphere.

With its sight temporarily blinded by the chaos, she grabbed the opportunity to duck away from her aggressor—running to the rocky high ground in the east could afford her better cover. Her map had shown gullies and small canyons dotted across the terrain, any one of which could proffer the advantage over the raging tyrannosaur. But was she strong enough, fast enough, to reach this sanctum before it could reach her? And how could she kill it? With the shotgun left behind, lying uselessly beside her initial cover, all she had were her trusty pistols, which were unable to even penetrate its skin. It was as if she were unarmed. Her mind racing as hard as her legs, Lara had no choice but to go on, and pray for luck to be on her side.

But the animal was too smart to be fooled her ruse—instead of continuing to search for its quarry amongst the trees as she'd hoped, it tilted its bulky skull and listened for a second, before turning to follow its escaping meal. With a stride greater than she could outpace, there was no possible way for her to reach the outcrop before it reached her. A growl, followed by a sharp snapping sound as it bit downwards, forced her to hastily duck to the side to avoid losing her head. Panic setting in, Lara kept running—her only chance was to out-manoeuvre the monstrous beast, but she knew that it had far superior stamina and energy, and wouldn't be put off until it held her bloody carcass in its jaws. She had to kill it somehow.

Fuelled by a dizzying adrenaline rush, a sudden idea sprang to the forefront of her mind—she still had her flares. Reluctant to begin a forest fire, Lara knew that she may have no other choice, if her life was to be spared the grisly fate that bore down upon her exhausted body. Dragging the backpack off one shoulder, she cried out as she felt the heat of the animal's breath above her head—dodging once more, she ducked through its legs, and narrowly missed being knocked from her feet by a tail that was as heavy as a wrecking ball. This move seemed to briefly confuse the predator, and gave her a few precious moments to grab a couple of flares from the pack. Lighting the first, she drew its attention, before throwing it deftly beneath its pale belly. The shock of illumination and fire causes the brute to recoil, roaring in angry agitation, but it stood its ground, insufficiently afraid of the spitting flames to make it flee. Lara's heart sank a little at this realisation, but the eerie glow of the flare against the tyrannosaur's undercarriage, gave her a second idea. Waiting for it to roar again as it stepped over the tiny fire, she lit the other flare and with a careful aim, threw it as hard as she could into the gaping space between its teeth.

With what sounded like a yelp of surprise, it threw its head back and attempted to cough up the lit flare, but Lara had pitched it deep into the back of its throat, and it was unable to dislodge the burning pain that she had delivered. Swallowing it proved to be a fatal mistake—the miniature inferno seared the soft flesh inside, destroying tissues and organs, and cooking the monster from within. Screeching and thrashing, Lara dived for cover as the dying dinosaur plunged through the landscape, in horrible pain. Its screams echoed through the evening air, before it finally collapsed into the base of a low steep rock-face, limbs twitching in its death throes, causing them to tear away the vegetation that obscured a deep opening behind. Silence fell, and with it, a peculiar calm—she'd expected to feel a certain amount of relief for her narrow escape, but all she perceived was a twinge of guilt at the demise of such a creature. Never before had she known herself to empathise with an attacker, but this had been the first time that she'd come so near to losing her life, that it seemed a shame to wrench victory from such a worthy adversary.

Approaching the beast for a closer look, a rush of cool air from the exposed hole in the low cliff drew her focus—there was a short tunnel in the rock, faintly lit by a sliver of the fading evening sunshine, and she couldn't help but follow the passage around to see where it led. A small roofless cavern lay before her gaze, and she walked toward the crudely decorated doorway at the far end—this could only be the secret tomb that she had been employed to find. Taking her time, Lara examined the rough-hewn stones and ornate figures around it edges in the incandescence of another flare.

With a slight smile playing across her lips, she turned to face the doorway, and casually stepped through it, into the darkness beyond.

It had started off as a joke. Just a silly half-hearted challenge, as he teased her from the confinement of his hospital bed. Every day she had visited, a mixture of curiosity and attraction drawing her to the handsome young American's side, and every day their conversation had turned to the things they loved the most—travel, adventure and the thrill of a decent chase. And so it had begun, the good-humoured argument that had led to these races. Four times now in the past year since his wounds had healed, had he turned up outside her gate on his battered, well-ridden Harley. Four times, revving his engine and smiling in that deliciously confident manner, his eyes full of energy and daring. Four times had he defied her to outrace him, and prove finally that cars were better than bikes. And four times now had she lost.

She'd never really expected to see him again after they'd left Prague. Something about his attitude told her that he couldn't stay still for long and would easily disappear the moment anything even remotely permanent, like friendship entered his life, and a sadness hung over him betraying a past full of pain and sorrow that he'd always refused to discuss. Constant travelling kept unhappy memories at bay, and he often sought distractions wherever he could find them. And in her he'd found a distraction he liked.

The first time he'd appeared, she'd been very surprised—she hadn't taken his challenge seriously, and had actually forgotten about it after her return home. Until his Harley roared up the driveway through the gates that Winston had yet again neglected to close. She'd made a mental note to have to have a word with him about that, before strolling outside with a casual air, to hide how pleased she was to see her attractive companion again. Not that she'd ever admit that she'd missed him at all.

Without a single word she knew what he'd come for. He held the firm belief that there wasn't a car in the world that could outperform him on his Harley, and his confidence was irritating to say the least, not to mention completely untrue. She had several that could exceed his bike's maximum speed and she'd relished their pace on many occasions, taking them to Pendine Sands and pushing the engines to their limits. The lengthy expanse of wet sand was perfect for racing, but slippery enough to provide even the most practised driver a suitable trial of their skills behind the wheel, and she loved it. She'd spent years handling many different vehicles on a variety of complex terrains, and had collected a few of her favourites to provide a little excitement between adventures—a Bowler Wildcat, the ultimate in tough, powerful offroaders, a Jaguar XJR for speed in the classiest possible way, a Land Rover Defender for more practical country trips, and just for fun, a Lamborghini Gaellardo Spyder convertible for no other reason, than it made her feel great. And not one of these vehicles had outrun his Harley. Not because they weren't fast enough, or because her driving skills were lacking, but for annoying outside influences, that had conspired to inflate her opponent's ego further.

The Bowler had ground to a halt on a small village lane, for the simple reason that it was too big to pass a gateway into the field beyond, that he had effortlessly sailed past at speed, and was also too large to turn around on the narrow track—by the time she'd managed to back up and find another route into the field, he was long gone, leaving her frustrated and with no alternative but to go home. Three months later he'd foxed the Land Rover too, this time on a rough track that the Bowler could've handled, but the Land Rover's smaller axles couldn't—it had become grounded on loose rocks that acted like a jack, and removed all purchase from beneath it's tyres. She'd sworn when she heard him laughing from ahead, as he manoeuvred deftly around the rocky patches and disappeared into the distance.

Determined to catch him before he reached rough ground the next time, she shoved her foot down hard in the Jaguar. Unfortunately she'd been too aggressive with the gears, and the car had protested and refused to bend to her will—the resultant crash through a wild hedgerow into the ditch beyond had left her with a repair bill that ran into the thousands. It was a beautiful car, but not tough enough for this race. Which only left her with one more option—her Gaellardo Spyder. Sleek and graceful with a lot of grunt beneath the bonnet, this was a car with a serious racing pedigree. If there was a supercar that could outpace a Harley, then this was it. But only if they stayed on the roads.

For most of the race she stayed on his tail, enjoying his struggle to open a gap between them. Breezing down country lanes, she was the epitomy of style, as she piled the pressure on a now stressed rider in front of her. All she needed was an opportunity to pass him on the narrow roads and take the lead, but fate yet again threw a problem in her path, and this one was the most embarrassing of all—she ran out of petrol. Having spent her days planning her strategy, and relishing the idea of thoroughly humiliating him at last, she'd overlooked the simplest detail and forgotten to fill up the petrol tank before he'd arrived. Cursing and berating her oversight, she could only watch as once more he disappeared into the distance, laughing at her failure—so close and yet so far. This had become annoying and if there's one thing she hated, it was losing. Competitive by nature, she had no intention of doing so again. Something would have to be done.

And something she did. Next time he turned up with that sideways grin and revved his engine at her, she would show him her new toy.

~

Everything about this car exuded power and magnificence—the smooth curves and low nose for minimum resistance, the way the body sloped seductively over the sixteen cylinder twin V8 engine that was capable of blasting out over a thousand brake horse power, the beautiful exposed engine bay that displayed the splendour of the turbocharged force within—it had been worth every penny of the £840,000 she had paid to get it. And there it stood before the smugness of the tatty motorbike on her driveway, it's headlights gleaming like the watchful eyes of a bird of prey.

He was impressed—almost. Having never seen a Bugatti Veyron before, he had no idea what kind of ferocity it could generate, and remained as confident as always that he would best her in this race, like he had done several times already. Even the deep threatening growl of it's engine failed to shake his demeanour, as he tore through the gates, his rear tyre sending gravel flying in a gesture of defiance. But she didn't chase him straight away.

Opening the door, she casually slipped into the soft leather behind the wheel and ran her fingertips over the circular disc in the centre, watching his bike turn the corner before gently turning the silver key in her hand. As he passed through the gates on his way down the road, the engine bust into life with a deafening snarl, and she smiled at the sound, assured that this time she could easily wipe that smug grin off his face. And then, jamming her foot down hard she coursed after him, feeling the car vibrate slightly as it flew up to 60 mph, in less than three seconds. Heart pounding as a surge of adrenalin flooded her veins, in anticipation of success, she eased the Veyron round tight corners and drifted smoothly down the long curves in the road, swiftly bearing down on the man whose very presence made her feel her passion for speed like no other, in ways she'd only previously known when facing terrifying danger. This was a passion born of competition, excitement, the thrills his bravado brought to her, and chasing him through the flat, verdant landscape at over 180 mph took her breath away. Here was a car that would slake her thirst for victory, and better the man who had taunted her to the peak of frustration, and she would relish the spine-tingling pleasure until the last possible moment. And then she would claim her prize; to make him feel the way he'd done to her for the last few months—humiliated and pathetic.

The race was over almost as quickly as it had started. For several minutes he struggled to keep ahead, with it immediately becoming apparent that there was no way he could outrun the Veyron. Changing tack he attempted to shake off the awesome control of the phenomenal machine that ran his back wheel to within inches, threatening to bite through the black rubber, like a wild animal tearing through the flesh of it's kill. He knew she meant business this time, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. A steely determination in her eyes, not even his obvious growing stress could persuade her to back this monster supercar down - relentless to the last, she pressed the accelerator down a little harder and finally forced him off the road.

Tyres screaming from the intense friction, his bike slid sideways under the sudden loss of control from her final onslaught—both man and machine were thrown roughly into the undergrowth beside the road, as she slammed on the brakes and skidded the most powerful production car in the world to a dramatic halt. Suddenly feeling a twinge of guilt at this unceremonious revenge, she slipped out of the car and hesitantly approached her fallen opponent. She hadn't meant to hurt him, and was ashamed that her emotion had spiralled so completely out of control.

He was already getting up, bruised and a little shaken, but otherwise unhurt. As he looked up towards her, she was unsure what to make of his expression—a mixture of amazement and admiration in his sapphire eyes. After a long pause he walked slowly towards her, a familiar grin emerging in the corner of his mouth. Nodding slightly he advanced, brushing his hair back from his eyes with his fingertips, surveying the scene before him. She stood in front of the Veyron, now silent and still, with her arms by her sides and a confused look on her face, much the same way she had in the Louvre that night the previous year. Only this time she knew exactly what was going to happen, and had no intention of stopping it. This was to be her prize.

Stepping back a little way as he approached, she leaned playfully against the car anticipating his next move. The notion of an encounter like this had occurred to her before many times, but never so publicly. Being in the open air on a country road offered intense excitement—at any moment someone could turn a bend in the road and discover them in flagrante, but this thought only heightened her desire for him. She was already deeply aroused and he knew it—but she was unwilling to give too much away, and resisted the urge to make the first move. A minute that felt to her like an hour passed, as their eyes locked; he held her gaze without revealing his intentions, and fought to maintain his composure—at any moment he was in danger of losing control and pinning her to the car, his hands on her body, writhing and undulating with lust. But he held firm and waited, all the while wondering if she could hear his heartbeat, pounding so hard he felt sure that it would break free from his chest. All she could hear was her own breathing, slow and rhythmic, deep enough to dizzy her senses. She braced her back against the smooth cold curve of the Veyron's roof to stop her legs from slipping from beneath her, as her head became light from the efforts of her lungs. Another minute passed silently, as both tried to gauge each other's responses—this mental foreplay electrifying the air until it seemed to crackle around them.

He broke first almost falling forward, his body hot and taut pressing firmly against the contours of her slender figure—sliding his hands across her hips and down her thighs, he hungrily searched for her lips, and kissed them with both tenderness and lust. She arched her body into him, one thigh between his legs, becoming moist at the touch of the unyielding heat she felt there—all self control gone her hands caressed the stiff fabric that graced his muscular buttocks, longing to remove the denim between them and squeeze his youthful flesh.

His hands moved higher, slipping beneath the thin shirt that tightly traced her voluptuous breasts, gently stroking her nipples as she tentatively probed his mouth with her tongue, tasting him a little first before allowing him to break free from their kiss and undo her buttons. As he did so she reached for his belt, their eyes locking once again as fingers gently exposed and teased their targets—each craving the sexual gratification that the other promised, until they could stand the waiting no longer, and tore at each other's remaining clothes like animals.

A second kiss more intense than the first was met with palpable heat—lifting her legs around his hips as he penetrated, she pulled him deeper into her, gripping tightly as he moved, slowly at first but with increasing passion as pleasure tingled through his organs. The sensation became insistent; her breathy gasps of bliss heightened his manhood's demand for orgasm, but she climaxed first—her whole body quivered as her head fell back, eyes closed and lips parted, a soft low moan escaping her elegant throat. The sound spurred him on to his sweet release, and barely a moment later he was sated too—the dam burst and warm, sticky fluid leaked from his spent organ, lazily trickling down her inner thigh as they clung to each other, savouring each other's humid satisfaction.

As the soft evening breeze cooled their nearly naked bodies, he brushed her lips affectionately one more time, in a manner that suggested goodbye, and began to dress. She instinctively knew that after this encounter she was unlikely to see him again, as the allure of competition had subsided. But yet she felt no sadness as the taste of his breath still lingered on her tongue, and his smile revealed his desire for her was no less now than it had been before. He'd be back one day wanting another race, wanting her again. And until then she had the memory of this union to bring her warmth inside.

As she fastened her buttons, he walked back to his Harley and heaved it from the coarse bushes beside the road. She watched silently as he flicked a few leaves off the chrome and slung his leg nonchalantly over the seat, before revving the engine in that cavalier fashion she knew so well. Looking back towards her for the final time, he cast his eye over the machine that had bested him so spectacularly, and nodded.

"Nice car," he said, before driving away.

The woman frowned, as the slavering listless animal sprawled across the rusting floor of it's enclosure, grunting softly with boredom. It had been three months now since it had been forced with cattle prods and machine gun fire, into a small iron-clad tank, damned to spend the rest of it's existence alone in the dark. Kristina Boaz hated keeping her pet confined in this restrictive space, but that unreasonable bully Eckhardt had insisted. Well not so much insisted as demanded, or else. And for what?—the Proto had only eaten two guards. Hardly any really, especially considering how many others Eckhardt had killed himself, for no particular reason. It was most unfair to imprison the poor creature in such a place, for what she regarded as a fairly minor offence—she'd done worse things herself, and was never locked up for her behaviour. Although she had been whipped, but that didn't count as she'd rather enjoyed the experience.

And now after only a short while her baby was rapidly outgrowing it's prison—every aspect of it's physical proportions increasing by the day, causing a dramatic increase in the beast's frustration and subsequently, it's aggression. Kristina had to reluctantly admit to herself that it was now too dangerous to handle closely, but mostly as a result of the claustrophobic atmosphere in which it had been trapped. She couldn't even pet it any more, something she missed rather a lot.

Sighing as she watched the creature lazily stretch it's tongue across the floor and rasp hungrily at a bone nearby, she resolved to get her precious creation freed as soon as possible, or at least into some better surroundings with greater space. It's behaviour would improve then, she was certain of that. After all, she could still maintain control over the Proto, it would still obey her—she was the closest thing it had ever had to a mother. That knowledge brought her a warm feeling deep inside, and kept awake her hope that this experiment would eventually be a success—as long as it was alive, there was a chance of it meeting the demonic purpose set out for the Cabal's new rise. The Proto was the first of what would be many great achievements for her, and would always remain her favourite.

After so many failed attempts at an immortal vassal, the day it had been born was quite a triumph, from the first blood-curdling scream as it clawed it's way free of the decomposing flesh that had played host to it's parasitic embryo, to the sleepy snuffles of contentment as she tenderly hand-fed her new arrival, with carefully chopped pieces of fresh hand. Unable to determine it's gender, the spiky little abherration eagerly answered to any name that came accompanied by a meaty chunk of something raw and bloody, before she finally settled on calling it 'Shunt', because of it's habit of shoving it's food into a corner with it's snout before eating. Kristina had grown very fond of her sweet little monster, and spent more time tending it than Eckhardt had been happy with—she'd been berated frequently for allowing her work to pile up while she played with the Proto as if it were a puppy, and he had finally become so enraged with her timewasting that he'd ordered it's destruction. But since his recent obsession with possessing some silly golden disc, he'd failed to notice that she hadn't done it, and while he was busy she intended to spend as much time with her baby as she could get away with.

Leaning forward a little as she gazed at her pet through the heavy studded trapdoor that hung open beside her feet, Kristina smiled as she picked up the new toy she'd prepared that afternoon.

"Here my beautiful," she soothed to the grumpy mass of spines and claws below, "I have brought you a new ball to play with."

The Proto looked up as a mottled human head landed a few inches away from it's nose and bounced several times before coming to rest against the side of the tank, it's glassy sunken eyes staring in bloodshot terror at the abomination that merely gazed at it for a moment, before growling in disgust at such a pitiful offering. Kristina was suitably disappointed with this lack of enthusiasm—she'd freshly severed this head herself, and left the brain inside as a special treat, knowing how much her pet loved soft centres. It was most unlike it to be so disinterested in raw flesh, and she became immediately concerned about this lethargic response. Perhaps she could tempt it with something tastier. Turning away from the opening she addressed the two guards who stood silently behind her.

"Shut the hatch and wait here until I return" she instructed, stepping sedately down the wrought ironwork that served as a crude staircase. Motioning to a third sentinel nearby to follow her, she strode across the gantry and through a doorway that led into a private area of the sanitarium, seemingly oblivious to the struggle that ensued behind her, as the Proto's attention was caught by the guards trying to close the trapdoor above the tank before it escaped. Kristina smiled at the sound of screams, as one of them fell to the angry flailing limbs that protruded from the small square space, and dragged the poor wretch inside to certain death, as his panick-stricken colleague attempted to escape the same fate, and close the hatch before the beast came back for seconds. This she found quietly reassuring—at least it wasn't ill.

"I'll make you something special to eat" she murmered softly to herself as she entered a long, dirty room that in some ways vaguely resembled a kitchen. Long slabs of stone lined dingy walls that flaked paint and dust, hanging with objects that would look more at home in a dungeon, the gloom broken only by slivers of light piercing their way through dirty windows, and the tiled floor, cracked and streaked as if it had never before seen mop and bucket. Pots and implements of varying descriptions covered almost every surface, and an open fireplace at the far end of the room often played host to bizarre cooking experiments of gory proportions. Pausing only to flick a switch beside the doorway that illuminated a single bare bulb in the centre of the room, Kristina headed to a large table in the centre of the room and carefully began to peruse a selection of bloodied knives. After a moment's hesitation, she picked up the largest and walked towards a nearby larder that was firmly bolted closed. Glaring over at her servile companion, she waited impatiently for him to open the door, tapping the heels of her boots together and flexing and unflexing her fingers around the handle of the knife, as she anticipated the culinary delight she would produce for her baby. Eyes shining as the door slowly swung open with a rusty creak of protest, her eagerness was promptly met with harrowing and gutteral sounds that caused her to recoil slightly before stepping inside. If there was one thing that Kristina hated more than she hated Eckhardt, it was the sound of human screams.

"Silence!" she snapped. "Bad food! Be quiet!"

Ignoring her orders, the terrified food continued to cry and plead for their lives. Five victims, weak and emaciated from the many days they had been manacled to these dank walls in total darkness, knew exactly what was about to happen—they'd seen her feed her pet before, and knew it was only a matter of time before it was their turn. The distressed soul closest to the door fell silent in horror, as Kristina approached.

The glint returned to her eyes as she perused the man's withered skeletal form--not much meat on this one. But from the way he usually screamed he had a good set of lungs—they were probably quite tasty. What else had he got in there? Raising the knife menacingly to his neck, she was keen to find out. He began to scream again as she lost her composure and fiercely dug the knife into his chest, slashing and hacking at the man's body as if she were fighting off a psychotic maniac, blood spraying everywhere as the man's agony and terror gave way to frenzied death-throes, as he struggled against her vigour. The screaming around her intensified—yet again the others witnessed what would eventually be their fate, their suffering prolonged only by the waiting, wondering when she would be back for them. As the resistance beneath her blade subsided until the final twitches had stopped, Kristina stood back to admire her handywork—the blood spattered wall framed the corpse that hung from it, dripping wet, it's entrails spilling to hide the limp feet that barely touched the ground. Nice.

Returning to the kitchen to collect a large bucket from the table, she began to carefully slice open the remains of the man's torso and cut away the organs within, dropping them gently into the container beside her, humming softly as she worked, now oblivious to all other sounds and enjoying herself. She had the perfect sauce to go with these—a little something she'd made for the Proto before which had always gone down well. Something she hoped would cheer it up a little, until she could return to keep it company after work. Dragging the bloody mess in the bucket back into the kitchen, she addressed the guard, who leaned against the wall behind the larder door, trying desperately to avoid watching what was happening and stop himself gagging.

"Take the rest of the meat to the refrigerator, I will make my baby fresh ribs for it's next feed. And don't forget to lock up."

Drawing a deep breath and forcing himself to enter the fetid chamber of death before him, the guard reluctantly obeyed. It was more than his life was worth to refuse this deranged madwoman anything—that was a fact as the human remains he had to remove, once wore an identical uniform to the one he was wearing now. Not that uniforms meant anything at all to her—she considered just about anyone expendable in both her work and play. He made a mental note to leave the Agency as soon as possible.

Unaware of these thoughts, Kristina continued her cooking—donning an already suspiciously stained apron, she neatly arranged the raw guts in a large bowl emblazoned with the name 'Shunt', and then diced the remaining organs and artistically decorated the slimy mess at the bottom of the dish, as if she were preparing a gourmet meal. Turning to a large pot full of creamy viscous fluid on a nearby stove and stirring slowly, she savoured the aroma of white wine and tarragon until the sauce bubbled invitingly, before drizzling a generous amount over the mass of rank offal, and satisfying her creativity by placing a sprig of parsely atop the whole disgusting mess.

"Perfect" she congratulated herself as she removed the filthy apron, and took it to a packing case in the corner that served as a laundry basket. She did love cooking with fresh ingredients.

Her smugness evaporated into revulsion, as she caught sight of herself in the reflection of a small broken mirror hanging above the case—in spite of the spider's web of cracks across it's surface, she could still clearly see the rapidly drying splatters of blood that soiled her face. Since the many months it had taken to painstakingly reconstruct her face after the horrific burns she'd suffered years earlier, the last thing she appreciated was to have it dirtied at all, and felt appalled at having to clean the delicate skin more than was necessary, considering how fragile the epidermis was. But she could hardly be seen like this, and had little choice but to wash it.

Pushing her hair back, she reached tenderly behind her ears and felt for the series of small discreet hooks that held her face on, and began to undo them. Slowly peeling back the skin, she attentively placed it into a soft linen bag that she'd taken out of a cupboard beside her, and then lifted a small box off a higher shelf, and gently unfolded a clean face to hook on in the other's place. Lucky she had a spare—she'd have to hand-wash her main face later. Her baby wanted it's food now.

Heaving the weighty dish of cordon bleu innards off the table, she lurched back down the corridors towards the tank, where the remaining uneaten guard stood recovering from his earlier struggle and loss of colleague. He was relieved when, instead of instructing him to open the hatch again, Kristina walked around to the other side of the containment unit, unlocked a small low panel and slid the bowl inside, closing the frame straight away. She listened to the loud thud as the Proto leapt over to it's dinner, which was followed by sickening squelches and slurps as it wolfed the repulsive medley, concluding with a noise that lay somewhere between a grunt and a belch, that signalled the beast's satisfaction. With a contented sigh, it rolled onto it's back and closed it's eyes, emitting snores that made the rivets in the walls vibrate.

Kristina smiled—it was nice to have her efforts appreciated. Wishing she had more time to stay and enjoy the sounds of her contented pet, she turned to leave—the guard would have to do that for her, as she still had a seemingly insurmountable load of work to do. Walking through the door heading back to the sanitarium she shook her head sadly, missing her baby already. It was Eckhardt's fault—she'd have as much time as she wanted to play with her pet, if only these wretched Nephilim would resurrect themselves...

"Gunderson, release Boaz!"

In that moment, Kurtis Trent knew that nothing good would come from those words that echoed throughout the arena. He knew Eckhardt had tricked them, made Lara chose between him and the painting with the promise to let them go.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Lara, stepping toward him, bending down to help him up. I do 'not' need your help, he thought as he lifted a hand and stopped her from coming to his aide.

He made it to his feet only to stumble backwards into the arms of Lara. Kurtis gripped his shoulder; a searing pain running through it from the fall he had taken from the catwalk above as he stabilized himself and moved a few inches away from her. He refused to show any sign of weakness toward this woman.

A huge garage door lifted; the track it was on creaking loudly, in dire need of a good oiling. Behind it revealed the face of Boaz, her eyes glaring; face slightly colored from the toxic slime of the Pod that had consumed her life.

Lara had drawn her gun and was pointing it at the creature beyond the door. But Kurtis focused his attention on Eckhardt and drew his Boran X and pointed it in the direction of his archenemy with the hopes of putting a bullet through his skull, but Eckhardt had already moved away from the ledge and out of range.

"Not you Muller, you useless piece of dross; you failed me too!" Eckhardt's voice called from above. A faint grunt sounded and the plump botanist, Grant Muller, fell through the air, flailing his limbs toward the cold steel of the ground below.

With his gun drawn, he circled around Lara, only to notice that she had had the same reaction to Muller's fall. A slight smile emerged from his lips before he turned his attention to the no longer needed Cabal member in front of him. He shared a quick glance with Lara and she tipped her head in Muller's direction. No loss, Kurtis agreed with silence.

The botanist, being the coward that he was, ran from Kurtis' gun point, toward the garage door, only to be swept up in the massive jaws of the giant creature that emerged from behind the door. Apparently the giant Boaz bug wasn't in to having her old colleague for dinner and Muller's body was flung through the air and across the arena.

Kurtis had feasted his eyes upon the beast and noticed the look of shock on Lara's face. He couldn't go after Eckhardt and leave her to fight the creature alone. It took a brief second to realize that he couldn't fight Eckhardt alone.

"Come on, I'll give you a boost," he said, holstering his gun and kneeling on one knee, preparing to throw Lara into the air. He pushed her up and used his powers to make sure she landed on the catwalk safely.

"Kurtis, quick," Lara's voice called to him as Boaz moved closer, waddling from side to side on her long, spidery legs.

"Here, take these two," he said tossing her his two Periapt shards and placed the opposite hand over his stomach. This should give me the time I need. I can get rid of Boaz and then meet up with Lara and we can take down Eckhardt together, he thought.

"These are your specialty Kurtis," Lara said, a hint of worry in her voice.

He shook his head. "Don't worry about ugly here. Go on! You're wasting time!"He slowly turned around as Lara fled. He drew his gun and held it calmly at his side. "I can take of her."

As he finished turning around, he was met face to face with Boaz. She snarled, opened her jaws, and growled at Kurtis. Ever heard of a breath mint?, he thought.

~

The creature's body twisted and writhed in agony as it collapsed to the floor and then ceased to move.

Kurtis sighed heavily and held his gun to his side, glad that the battle was over. There had been a series of close calls when he didn't think he would make it; the green liquid that spewed from the four sacs on her sides had stung him like a thousand bees and every time she had lunged forward toward him, he was sure he'd be caught in her deadly jaws.

"That wasn't so... hard," he said and began to walk away, his free hand resting lightly over his stomach.

Just when he thought he was home free and was trying to figure out how he could to Lara, he heard a noise and turned around to see a human-fly emerge from the carcass of the giant bug. The fly-lady unfolded her colorful wings and shrieked, then flew up in the air and rapidly descended.

"Gimme a break," Kurtis breathed as he raised his gun and aimed it at Boaz's head. A few well placed shots and she fell to the floor.

Kurtis stood over her body, pointed to gun to her head as she snarled and then ceased breathing. He holstered his gun and walked away.

Now that that's done, he thought. A growl from behind sounded and before he could turn, he felt a sharp pain in his stomach. He looked down and gasped at one of Boaz's legs sticking through him. He grabbed it with his hand right before she yanked it out. Kurtis grabbed his Chirugai and sent it flying toward the barely living fly-lady. It sliced off her head in one clean cut and sent it rolling to the floor.

He gripped his stomach as he fell to his knees. Never turn your back on your enemy, a voice said in his head; a voice that wasn't his. But he shoved the voice in the back of his mind as he knelt on the ground, holding his bleeding stomach. Never turn your back on your enemy, the voice came again; a voice that suddenly became recognizable, the voice of his father while he was in Lux Veritatis training. He couldn't think of the past, he had to focus on what was happening at that very moment; he was dying. He fell to the ground and sighed in heavily and his eyes closed.

~

Kurtis, quick. That voice. He knew that voice. The voice of a woman whom he had grown accustomed to the last few days; the voice of his ally, partner in crime; the voice of his friend.

Lara, he thought as he lay there over the plate that had raised to cover the entrance to the Lux Veritatis vault. Lara. He kept repeating her name over and over in his head. These are you specialty, Kurtis, her voice said in his head again.

Lara, he thought again. Where is she now? His thoughts went back to Lara; back to the day in the Louvre and the pay-back he had received in the airlock after he'd come out of the Sanitarium. He thought of Lara as he laid there, soaked by the puddle of his own blood.

Can't stay here. They could find me here. He struggled to his feet and fell back down. He grunted and tried again, this time shakily making it to his feet. His hand was red, covered in his own blood. Below him, a crimson pool was spread out at his feet. I've lost a lot of blood. He looked down at his stomach and removed his hand, revealing a baseball sized hole in his shirt; his skin was jagged and his insides exposed. Damn. I like this shirt. Cut it out Trent. You gotta get out of here. He stumbled toward the door Boaz emerged and stopped mid-step. Lara. She needs to find me. But I can't stay here. What if they come back? He looked down at his Chirugai and used what little strength he had and tossed it so it landed in the middle of the pool of blood. Hopefully she'll find it.

He stumbled down a cold, damp corridor and collapsed at the end of it. His breathing was getting harder; his wound was bleeding more heavily. He leaned against a near-by wall and pressed his hand harder against the gaping wound in his stomach. She'll be here soon. Lara will be here soon.

~

Kurtis? Kurtis?

A voice, but whom? He couldn't open his eyes, not yet. That voice. I know that voice.

Kurtis? Are you alright?

Lara, he thought. Lara. Unconsciously he had spoken her name.

Yes, Kurtis, I'm here.

Dreaming, he told himself. You're dreaming. Life is slipping through your fingers. You're done Trent. You're done.

He saw a light; a bright light and he was approaching it. His hand was outstretched, reaching for the light. His eyes opened and looked into a familiar face. "Lara?" he breathed.

The woman before him smiled and sighed with relief. "Kurtis."

"You found me," he whispered.

"I couldn't leave you."

Handing over the credit card with a smile that she'd long ago learned to fake, Lara swapped her wallet to her submissive hand and readied the other to tap in her pin number when the till was ready, working constantly to process sales from the throngs of shoppers.

"Lara?" Lara!" The voice was uncertain at first, its owner not quite sure that they'd correctly recognised her, but after she turned towards them their words changed from a question to a greeting.

"Lara, it's been so long, how have you been?" It was David, the groom from the stables that she'd attended in her early twenties after first taking up residence in the mansion." They'd been good friends. She'd wanted to be more.

"David," she laughed, quickly tapping in her pin number for the waiting assistant before turning back to him." "I'm very well, thankyou. How are you?"

"Great! I'm... I'm great." He nodded, hands sliding into his pockets.

The shop assistant handed the card back to Lara and held out the bag of shopping, Lara quickly putting her credit card away before accepting her purchases and taking David's elbow lightly to lead him away from the crowded service desk of the expensive clothing shop.

"So, David," she said warmly as they went to stand out of peoples' way in a corner near the door, "are you still working at the stables?"

"No," he said, grinning. "No, I retrained. I'm an insurance underwriter now, earning more, getting dirty less."

They both laughed a little, not uncomfortable but still feeling the distance of the years. She stared at him, not even putting any effort into grinning like the Cheshire Cat. His eyes were still that watery blue, his hair still that dirty blonde, although he'd left behind the fashionable floppy haircut of the 1990s and now had a more adult, city executive style teased with gel.

He was smiling back at her, returning the perusal. Her greater experience and confidence now told her that she'd been right to suspect his feelings towards her all those years ago had been more than just those of a friend blind to physical attraction, and from the look he was giving her, he still saw her that way. She smiled at him once more, conveying her interest.

"My parking ticket's almost run out so I can't stay, but let's meet up for a coffee soon and catch up. I just have to take something to the Returns desk--it's a top I bought last week, but it doesn't really suit me—and then we'll sort something out, exchange numbers whilst you walk me to my car. Why don't you wait for me outside?"

"Ok," David agreed, nodding. "I'll be right out there." He turned to leave, looking back over his shoulder to give another head to toe glance.

Lara gave him one last quick flash of a grin and then hurried to get her refund.

As she walked slowly out of the shop a few minutes later, looking around for David, it became clear that he had gone.

She sagged, despondant. Perhaps he'd decided that a woman older than him by a few years with the lacklustre skin and dead eyes of a depressive with the disposition to match wasn't someone he really wanted to pursue.

Heading back to her car, she glanced in the shop windows at the displays as she passed--and saw him. He was in a shoe shop, examining some trainers. Not stopping to consider why he'd not waited, she rushed forwards to capture him again. Not noticing her, he began to march away across the crowded shop floor and she called his name, hoping to stop him.

"David!"

He turned and saw her just as she realised that he'd been returning to a woman sat on the stools placed for customers to try on shoes, a blonde woman with bright eyes, a happy smile—and a pram.

It was too late, they were both looking at her, David surprised and the woman confused.

"Lara," David said, disdain underneath false warmth. "Well, I just ran into you in the other shop, I didn't think we'd bump into each other here as well."

"Is this a friend of yours, David?" the woman asked earnestly, as Lara approached from between the shelves.

"Yeah. Yes, Michelle, this is Lara. She used to attend the stables I worked at; I saw her while I was waiting for you to finish changing Katrina. Lara, this is Michelle."

"Your wife," Lara said as she moved closer to talk, smiling brightly at the woman. Leaning over, she looked into the pram. "And your daughter," she finished, beaming at Michelle. "A beautiful baby." Inside she felt cold.

Michelle smiled back, genuinely welcoming and obviously proud of her child. "Thank you."

"Lara, why don't we swap numbers and then get together sometime to catch up?" He sounded more eager to get rid of her than eager to see her again as he had when he'd been alone. He flashed an uncomfortable smile and his glance quickly darted away to the corner of the room.

Nodding quickly, Lara returned the weak grin and fumbled in her bag clumsily for her notepad. "Of course," she said, "I should really be getting along anyway."

~

Lara poured the water into the tea cup and then, simply unable to finish making her drink, sat heavily on her chair and buried her face in her hands.

It just wasn't fair.

Everyone was happy except for her. Everyone had got on with their lives except for her. Oh yes, she had money and a mansion and a title, but it all meant nothing when you weren't happy, and it wasn't like life had ever given her anything important, had it?

Nothing apart from a crushing duty to save the world, anyway.

Why couldn't she go back to the way she was before? Why had she let Egypt change her so much?

Why couldn't she cry?

She hated him. And she hated David, too. He had a job and a spouse and a child. They weren't necessarily things that Lara wanted—she was rather certain they'd suffocate her as much as her loneliness was doing at that moment—but what bothered her was that he'd got on and achieved things, things that were supposed to be important, and she'd just stayed still and done the same thing forever and now she was just left behind. Left behind without anyone to stay behind with her. Left behind because she'd done the right thing.

Slamming the palm of her hand into the table's edge, she gave out a strangled scream of rage and despair, the table jolting sharply and the unbrewed tea slopping over the rim of the cup." She sat and stared at the spilt drink for a moment, really not caring about the mess. Then she looked at the cloth by the sink for a while before rising to retrieve it and wipe up the spill.

It had been two days since she'd bumped into David in town. Two days since she'd felt herself wake to the possibility of living again and then having it all crash down around her again, a fresh wound.

She knew it would be better for everyone if she just stayed away. David must have known that too; he hadn't called. Perhaps, though, perhaps she was a little bit of a masochist. Perhaps she thought she deserved to suffer. That was the only reason she could think to explain her behaviour when she found herself picking up the phone.

"Hello, David Tyler's phone."

"Oh." Lara was taken aback for a moment. It was his mobile phone number he'd given her, she didn't expect anyone else to be answering it. "Is that Michelle?"

"Yes."

"It's Lara. We met in town?"

"Oh, hello!" The voice was cheerful, welcoming. She seemed like such a lovely person. "I'm sorry, but David's at work. He's gone and forgotten to take his phone with him today."

"Oh!" Lara softly chided herself, putting a hand to her forehead. "Of course he is. I don't work regular hours, sometimes I forget there's a working week. I'm sorry to bother you."

"Oh, it's ok!" Michelle said, quickly continuing the conversation before Lara could hang up. "He'll be home in a couple of hours. Why don't you come over and wait for him? I'd love to talk to you, I don't really get many chances to meet people now I'm at home looking after the baby."

No excuse to hand, Lara falteringly searched for a way to politely turn down the invitation." "Oh, well, I really do have to—"

"It really won't be long before he's home and it would be lovely to meet some more of his friends. I really only know the people from his office, I haven't met anybody from his university or anything."

She should go. It would be good for her, and Michelle was obviously in need of some female company. It really wouldn't be that bad, and what was she going to do instead?

"Alright," Lara agreed. "Where do you live?"

~

Forty minutes later Lara was scanning the numbers of the doors as she walked smartly along the corridor of an upper floor in an upmarket town apartment block. Finding the room, she knocked and waited. It was dim in the corridor, with only faint lighting that didn't properly reach into the end corner where Lara was stood.

The door opened and electric light flooded out, illuminating Michelle's bright purple jumper.

"Lara!" the woman greeted. The baby was in her arms, partially over one shoulder, so she didn't offer her hand for fear of losing grip. Instead, she stood back and invited her visitor in with a smile. Smiling back with what Lara suspected was rather less feeling, she stepped inside.

The flat was large and open plan, with hardwood floors, a kitchen stocked with shiny steel saucepans and a smoked glass and chrome dining table dominating a raised area surrounded on three sides by walls lined with built-in shelves. It had obviously been show-home perfect before the arrival of the child, but now toys were scattered in a small area of the lounge space and the kitchen hadn't been cleaned after lunch.

"Please excuse the mess," Michelle said, following Lara into the centre of the room, "but I'm sure you can appreciate that babies and tidy houses don't really go together. Do you have any children?"

Lara looked to her, smiling and shaking her head. "No."

"Well, I've been trying to get this one to sleep for a while now but she's not co-operating so I'll just see how she likes being left to play." The baby was laid down on a padded mat with mirrors and shapes suspended from a bar above it and left to amuse itself. "Can I get you a drink, Lara?"

"Oh, that would be lovely, thank you. Tea, if you have it." She followed Michelle to the kitchenette and leant against the worktop as her host retrieved cups, put water on to boil and quickly washed a few dishes."

"I was a solicitor before I had Katrina. I've given up work for the time being but when she starts school I'm hoping to go back."

"That's a long career break," Lara commented.

"Yes, it is, but I'd prefer to take the time for my daughter than concentrate on a career. I know a lot of women want to do well professionally but to me, my family is more important. In the grand scheme of things, my job isn't my highest priority even if I did love it."

"Has it become a strain, losing the income just when you need it the most?"

"It has, yes, especially with the cost of this place." Michelle poured the freshly boiled water onto the tea bags and sighed. "David's been doing a lot of overtime to make sure we can afford to carry on as we're used to. He comes home late, so tired, and with him gone most evenings I've found myself sleeping—"

'With someone else', Lara finished in her head, shocking herself at her sudden schadenfreude attitude.

"—when Katrina's napping in the afternoon," Michelle finished. "I'm just not tired come night time so David goes to bed alone and by the time I join him he's dead to the world. Still, we make time for each other when we can, we'll be alright."

Smiling at her guest, oblivious to the thoughts in her head, Michelle turned and offered a mug of tea with a friendly smile. "Come on, let's sit down, you can tell me all about yourself."

They chatted for an hour, Lara leaning forwards in the squashy leather armchair and inwardly, begrudgingly, admitting that her hostess was an incredibly lovely woman, so easy to get on with. Their conversation was broken when the front door opened.

"Oh, David!" Michelle stood, turning towards her husband as he returned from work. "You left your mobile and Lara called, so I invited her over. We've just been saying that we should meet up to go shopping one afternoon if my mum will babysit."

"You deserve the break," David agreed, flashing Lara a cold smile before turning back to his wife. "You didn't forget we're going out to dinner tonight, are you?" he asked hurriedly. "That's why I'm home early." He quickly darted forwards and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before rushing away again to remove his coat.

"No, no, I didn't forget. Susan phoned this morning to say that she'd meet us at the restaurant but Robert can't come, he's not well."

"Oh that's a shame," David said absently, busily hanging up his jacket and leafing through his wallet to check he had enough money for the evening. "Did she say what's wrong with him?"

"I'd better be going then," Lara interrupted, smoothing imaginary creases on her jeans. "Obviously you're leaving very soon so I'd best leave you two to get ready."

"Oh why don't you come with us?" Michelle enthused. "You can fill Robert's place and I'm sure you'd get on with Susan—she's someone I used to work with before I gave up my job."

Lara's gaze fell disdainfully on David's back as he rummaged through a pile of ironing for a clean shirt. "No, it's alright, I'm rather busy this evening and I wouldn't want to intrude."

Turning back to Michelle, Lara began to smile, only half affected. "Michelle, it's been lovely to meet you and we really should meet up again for some shopping or a film."

"Yes, yes, of course!" The two women moved to the front door.

"Goodbye then," Lara said, "enjoy your meal."

"Bye, Lara," David threw over his shoulder.

"Goodbye," Michelle returned, taking Lara's hand and giving it a squeeze. "We'll talk again soon."

~

She sat with the television on late that evening, staring at the screen without really seeing the picture. It was difficult, she was torn. She wanted to hate Michelle so much, but Michelle didn't deserve it. And David—she wanted to hate him, he deserved to have her hate him for his blatent disregard for his marriage given a fly-by opportunity for a fling, but somehow all she could think of was how they used to flirt.

Her mobile phone beeped to alert her of a new text message. Distracted from her thoughts, she reached out and read it.

Riverbank Hotel, tonight at 2, room 312. David.

Mouth open, Lara stared at the phone.

The murmur of delighted chatter, chinking glasses and punctuating laughter, all overseen by the string quartet playing a medley of her theme tunes, filled the ballroom. It wrapped around Lara like a comforting cocoon as she stood, watching her party guests mingle.

There was Jonell Elliot perusing the hors d'oeuvres, delicately filling her plate as she chatted to Adrian Smith alongside her. His brother was somewhere in the middle of the throngs, engaged in intense conversation with a sales team member from Eidos. Just behind them she could see Morgan Gray from Crystal Dynamics joking with two of the concept artists from her second adventure and Lara, satisfied that everyone was getting along, turned away and began to pour herself a drink.

Loud laughter from several people at once attracted her attention, and, drink in hand, she followed it out into the crowded hall to find a group of programmers loudly appreciating an amusing anecdote from Rhona Mitra, one of her official models.

Threading her way past them and on through the crowd, Lara returned Toby Gard's nod with a polite smile across the room, and carried on her way, stopping to clasp Murti Schofield's hand warmly in greeting as he called to her.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she turned and once more gazed out across her party guests. Everyone was here. From writers to publicists, everyone who ever had a hand in making Lara the success that she was, was here for her birthday party. It was astounding that they'd all managed to fit in the mansion, she mused.

As Lara closed her bedroom door behind her, the noise from below dimmed considerably, but remained audible. She placed her half-drunk wine on her dresser and moved to the bed, opening the smart black case that lay there. Inside lay her birthday present--two shiny, new, fully loaded pistols. She lifted them out, hefting them in her hands, feeling their satisfying weight and shape. They were perfect.

Minutes later the guns were being slid into her holsters over her tattered but much loved brown shorts twinned with her turquoise top. Giving one last look back towards her door, the sounds of the party filtering through, she grinned and hopped out onto her balcony and over to a nearby drainpipe.

Climbing down, she stopped by the window and peered in, unnoticed, at her busy guests. Everyone was there. For better or worse, they had all had a hand in making Lara who she was—a character with a life all of her own, with history, personality, true fame... as much as she was grateful to them, Lara didn't need them to create her adventures for her anymore. No matter what, life would happen to her without their help now. She could safely leave them to celebrate without her as, on the dawn of another year in her life, she went off to find adventure... unscripted.