Some Light-Hearted Wren Fun

[Verdana]

The street was bright at night. The occasional car broke the murmuring quiet of the night. It was beautiful, Bree thought to herself. Malberry had her arm, and rested his head on hers. He was a bit taller than she was, so when she put her head down, it brushed his shoulders. It felt nice. Right. 'Maybe this is what love feels like,' Bree thought with a pang of longing. Assassins didn't have love. Shay had made sure that she knew that. A painful thought clouded Bree's eyes for a moment. Shaygrin had shot Bree's first boyfriend 'accidentally'. She hadn't killed him, but nobody's the same after a shot to the head. Bree supposed that she had learnt about the fallibility of people from that incident.

She wished that she hadn't had to learn so fast.

She would be a year older in the next few months. A little older, but still hopelessly young. She felt simultaneously very immature, and very old. She didn't want to think about that right then. She had been having a lovely time. They had reached the hotel. She had to stop. Had to become an assassin again. She bowed her head, accepting this as she walked through the door. It was her job, her life to kill people. There was no escaping that. Her eyes roamed around the moderately clean, uniform hotel room. They latched upon the single bed, and her brain wanly acknowledged the awkwardness which was sure to come.

Then, slowly, she began to rebel.

No. She was not quite ready to become responsible, tense and utterly devoid of personality again. She had been enjoying herself, and she'd been doing it without killing anyone. It didn't seem fair to make it end so abruptly. She frowned, once, and then her face cleared. She felt liberated as she turned around, flung her arms around Malberry's neck, and once again locked her lips against his.

Her memories of the night spiralled away. If she thought really hard about it later, she would remember vague fragments: A confused-looking waiter; an empty champagne glass; vodka shots and raucous laughter; a soft hand against her face;
pink feathers; leaving; a raccoon; a tender kiss which tasted like cranberries;
red leather; a return; chocolate milk;
a deep, sad conversation;
an eye.

And nothing more.

............................

Thump. Thump thump. Throb. Pull.

Bree groaned softly, squinting. Light was hitting her face like a knuckleduster. Her mouth felt thick. Her tongue felt fuzzy and swollen. Her head throbbed. She moaned again, and swore under her breath, turning over. Bad idea. Her body informed her matter-of-factly that it was not cut out to ingest the amount of alcohol she had forced upon it. She didn't remember that, at first. She thought that there was something else wrong. She couldn't... Couldn't quite remember what she had...

Then she did. She swore again, sitting up with the immediate knowledge that she was not very proud of herself, even if she couldn't recall why.

She looked down at herself, and remembered. Partially.

She yelped.

A voice, too loud, too jarring, rose from an armchair, knocked out of place in the night.

Good morning, dear. Did you have a productive training session?

[Derelict Draught]

Lights. Laughter. Drinks. A beautiful girl. Jessica...Bree. Her smile. Her soft lips. The night only grew brighter. More wonderful with each bottle they drained. Time allowed the two to shed their identities and assumptions, left them with only what they carried. Just the two of them.

Then the bubble popped. The conversation which had brought so many smiles to Bree's face shifted. A more somber mood appeared between them. His gaze held even as words of misery and mistake passed between the two of them. The discussion revealed many things he'd assumed and some he didn't dare comment on. The end result matched the draining mood of the night, a soft hug and slipping the drunken girl into bed where she'd stay warm.

A claymore by the door and a blade under her pillow were all the security he imagined she'd need. Mounting the window sill, Malberry makes his way to the top of the building. Sitting on the lip of the structure, he drinks the remnants of their vodka bottle as he watches the city beyond. The streets were slowing as people retired for the night but still stray cars dotted the roads.

-----

How he got down from the roof, he didn't remember. He awoke as a voice screamed across his mind. The cushioning of the blanket and the bed itself tried to pull him back into the first real slumber he'd had since...since he'd left the Army. Fighting the warmth of the bed which enveloped him, Malberry dropped himself to the floor with a loud THUD. The sound seemed to echo about him as his eyes slowly opened. That was all it took to send his heart racing.

Inches away from his face lay the head piece of an Ewok costume. Various knives stuck out from the top of the creature and there were words written into the creatures furry forehead. "Jub Jub this!" Questions begin to race about his mind as he rocks back into a seated position, staring into the false eyes of the suit as though they held some great secret.

Another snap. His body swivels to face the woman in the chair, his hands instinctively drawing one of the blades from the Ewok cap. His eyes trace the lines of the woman's body. They were bulky. Furry. That's all he needed to know. Flopping backwards, he smacks his head on the table behind him. A soft groan escapes him as he absently rubs the bruise.

"Of all the costumes you could dress in...Did it have to be the Birthday Surprise Wookie?"

[Verdana]

Shaygrin had been waiting in the room since before dawn. After taking care of some strategically-placed, but completely uninvolved with Malberry's plan, business, she had decided to check in on her daughter and her new tutor. She had found them asleep and reeking of alcohol, but had not been too worried. She'd curled up in a chair, and waited for them to wake up. She'd gotten bored, gotten breakfast (brought some back for them, too, but that could wait) and returned, just in time for the two of them to wake up.

Bree stared at her mother with bleary horror. Her head was slow, and felt as if it was being squeezed. She couldn't think clearly enough to escape from the mess she was in. It was nothing if not a mess. She wasn't sure if Shay was acting in the capacity of mother or commander. Either way, Bree was doomed. She placed her feet on the floor gingerly. The motion sent spasms through her body. She whimpered. Winced. Swallowed thickly.

Shay, however, was not looking at her, for the moment. She was looking at Malberry who was next to her nexttoherinthebedOhbythebladewhathadtheydone? Bree tried to act calm, while desperately trying to remember what she had done before falling asleep. It was no good. She could barely remember past the convention and the... Oh no. Had Shay seen the proposal?

For the moment, Shay seemed ignorant. She acted as if finding her underage daughter in bed with an adult of a different species was completely acceptable practice. For Shay, it probably was. She ignored Bree (who looked down, and discovered that she was wearing very very little and spent the next few minutes trying to wrap herself in the blanket without actually moving) and talked to Malberry. Her brow furrowed in confusion.
Oh, I'm sorry dear. Does it offend you? I'll remove it, if you like.

She pulled the bizarrely seductive fur suit off. Beneath it, she was wearing plain black clothes. Unlike when Bree wore similar outfits, it did not look sullen or rebellious. It looked perfectly suitable. Shay was very good at looking suitable. She'd dyed her hair back to black for the occasion, and with a dash of makeup on, she could pass for a woman in her late thirties in a good light. She shook out her hair, and turned to the two with a faint smile.

I'm terribly sorry if I disturbed you, she said politely,
But I was in the neighbourhood and thought I'd drop in. I'm afraid that I may have to cut your training session short. Bree, there's a job back home which you are suited for.

Bree stared at her mother, thinking fast. Was it possible that Shay didn't know? Probably not, but while she was pretending not to, Bree couldn't admit to what she'd done or she'd risk triggering her mother's wrath. However, she was in no state to go anywhere. She was feeling increasingly nauseous, and everything her mother said grated against her ossicles with vicious intensity. Even the light wanted to make her unhappy. Bree licked her lips, which were dry and tasted dreadful.
Is it... Complex? she croaked.
Shay did not appear to notice anything odd in her daughter's tone.
Not really, she said carelessly, But it looks like lots of fun. Lots of high-speed car-chases. I know how much you like those. You will have to fly, though.

Bree blanched. Fly. Flying. She hated airplanes on a good day. She was intensely claustrophobic, and that day she felt like a complete wreck. She licked her lips again.
If it's, so easy... she began.
I want you to do it.
Shaygrin turned to her daughter, and her eyes were blank. She knew. Oh, she knew, and Bree wasn't getting away with it. Bree cringed slightly under the look.
When do I leave?
Instantly, Shay's face brightened again.

Oh, you have plenty of time, dear. We can eat a nice little breakfast together, and then the car will pick you up.

[Derelict Draught]

Malberry toys with the Ewok head as the beast sheds its outer shell. His eyes rest on the head piece to avoid witnessing anything the two women might scar him with at a later date. Throughout their conversation, he'd focused his attention on the furry piece. The words were not lost to him, only filtered on the basis of what he needed to know. Rising to his feet, he tosses the now blade free Ewok cap out of the still open window.

"Breakfast sounds lovely."

Raising his eyes to the woman for the first time since she'd begun her discussion, he can't help but crack a smile. The woman may have been older than dirt but she knew how to dress sharp and just how to conceal what few warning signs there were. Keeping his back turned to Bree and ignoring her indecency, he makes his way to the bathroom and the sink within.

There were still numerous aspects of the previous evening which appeared as buzzing shades in his still fumbling consciousness. The only thing that seemed to stand out following his departure from the room were the piles of bottles he'd left in his wake. Jack. Bourbon. Wines. Vodka. Each bottle's label remained clear as day even within the blur that made up the rest of his environment.

He had one other clear memory. The images were so vivid that he would have dismissed them as creations of a drunken mind. There were a dozen of them. All armed with steely weapons that glinted in the lamplight. They were short and god ugly. Smart though. They'd teamed up and hit him from multiple sides. Each making small grunting noises and whistles to confuse him.

They'd made a mistake though. They believed him unarmed. A drunkard ripe for the picking. A few mistakes then. He had no money for them to take. He had drunken far more than they anticipated. He carried even more bottles than they could see. Oh, he had a working phaser too.

The fight had passed in heartbeats. Time tracked only by each throb in his skull.

The first two came from his left, crashing into a dumpster as he tripped over his own feet. The next trio tried to pin him but the bottles had broken his fall creating a slick around them and sending them crashing about. One came at his back as he attempted to regain his feet, a shrill cry had arisen when he fell backwards on the creature.

The remaining six huddled at the far end as the drunkard fumbled about his feet in the hopes of besting gravity. Chirps and whistles rose from the group as they spread across the alley's opening. Slowly they advanced, their blades standing against the dark fur. The drunkard uses a trashcan to stabilize himself, entirely unaware of the rushing death. The creatures break into a sprint, two take to the air in the hopes of a killing blow while the others rush the man's legs.

He slips.

The first of the airborne lands inside of the now open trash can, becoming trapped in the container as the other crashes into the lid which hovered in the startled drunkard's hand. The low blow group succeeds in tripping the man, only to find him falling the wrong way. Clinging to the man's flailing legs, three of the four crash into the walls of the alley. The fourth, filled with rage at his band's defeat, climbs the man's chest. He raises his blade high-

The creature slumps forward, the head rolling free. The remnants of a broken vodka bottle glisten in the light. Throughout the entire struggle the man had clung to the bottle not spilling a drop. Then that little twit knocked him over and spilled it all out. So the fitting revenge was to knock the fool out with the bottle he'd wasted.

After the fight everything was blank though, he didn't know what time the fight occurred at, he just knew he really didn't like Ewoks. A splash of water from the sink cools his burning cheeks. He was still drunk. The flush remained just as healthy and strong as the night before. That explained the lack of a migraine as well.

Returning to the room, he leans against the wall allowing a moment to pass as his brain sorted his curiosities.

"Am I to be assigned another task or shall I continue with the security contact for Kevin Sorbo?"

[Verdana]

Bree said nothing as breakfast was offered, but her already-pasty face turned a shade more grey. Malberry, on the other hand, agreed heartily. With a cheery smile, Shay turned around, and started to unpack a picnic hamper. She unveiled steaming croissants, pots of homemade jam, marmalade and infused honey, newly-churned butter, and three omelettes. She also supplied hot coffee, tea and a conspicuous amount of orange juice. By the time Malberry returned from the bathroom, looking contemplative and somewhat refreshed, an impressive spread had been assembled. She dusted off her hands, looking like a housewife in a killer costume, and faced the two younger people with a cheery smile, completely ignoring Marcus's question.

For the time being.

Well? she demanded, with a smile so oblivious that it bordered on ominous,
Tuck in before it gets cold, dears.
She sat down and began to eat with tidy enjoyment.Bree sat down with unusual timidity. Shaygrin pushed a croissant towards her, and smothered it in butter. Bree looked at her mother. Shay looked at her daughter. Bree looked torn, indecisive and a bit green. The commander looked pleasant in a way which was decidedly frightening. Bree bent her head, and picked up her croissant.

Breakfast proceeded silently, except for small noises of enjoyment emitting from Shay. Like her daughter, the woman could pack away an obscene amount of food. Bree managed to nibble on her croissant, before standing up with great poise, and walking, slowly and calmly, to the bathroom. Shaygrin did not react as the soft sounds of someone trying to be sick silently filtered out to her. In fact, she seemed to eat with even greater satisfaction. Her smile took on a smirk-like quality as Bree emerged, grey and clammy.
Orange juice, sweetheart?

In that moment, Bree despised her mother.

Your lift is here, love, Shay said without reacting to her daughter's horrified face.
It is a pity that you didn't have time to make yourself more presentable, but I'm sure that they won't mind that in Morocco.
Bree winced noticeably. Bright light. Bazars. The flight.

Well? Off you go, dear. You don't want to keep them waiting.

The door of the hotel room clicked closed. Shaygrin picked up her daughter's half-eaten croissant, examined it and began to polish it off. Quiet reigned. For a while.

Empathy.

One word. Shaygrin's posture and face hadn't changed. She might not have spoken at all, for she volunteered no further information or insights on the subject. She finished the croissant, downed her glass of orange juice as well as her daughter's, patted her lips and stood up abruptly.

Take my arm, dear.

Let's go on a trip down memory lane.

[Derelict Draught]

The meal was silent. Malberry was a tad grateful for the peace, less antagonism for his throbbing skull. He was unconsciously aware of the wordless communication that passed between the women but he made no attempts to glean what their glances discussed. His inquiry had been ignored as had he. That was a welcome change for such a scenario.

When words did come, Malberry found himself graciously excluded from initial thought. Bree would be gone. Banished to one of the most painful experiences a hangover could imagine. He would have taken some measure to delay her departure and buy her some time to recover but he knew the effort would be futile. Just as quickly as the thought passed, Bree was dispatched to the waiting vehicle.

He was alone. With the Mother. Heavens help him.

Choosing to let the food within him settle during the quiet that followed the girl's departure, he allows his eyes to drift about the room searching for Shay's point of entry. Every trap he'd set appeared to be disarmed. The claymore by the door lay on its side deactivated, the flashbang on the window sat peacefully on the sill. Others lay about in similar states, their purposes clearly thwarted. Her initial entry point still remained a mystery.

Rising to his feet, Malberry complies with the woman's instruction. "That could take a while. Will we be back in time for the ice cream buffet?" A wry smile marks his lips as he turns his eyes to the woman's face. He could at least have a little fun before he died.

[Verdana]

[Oh, Malberry, I don't think you know how ironic that was... ]

Malberry, Shay noted, was not eating as much as would be expected from a lad of his age. He was faring better than her daughter, then, but not by much.

He would not like her mode of travel.

She did not smile as he answered, but her brow furrowed slightly. Did he... Had he... No. It was coincidence. Beautiful irony. She smirked, only half because she'd identified his joke.
I think that I can arrange that, she said, imitating his tone. She waited for him to take her arm. He seemed uncomfortable.
No doubt that's because he was fornicating with my daughter not six hours ago, she thought wryly. The promiscuous young woman who had done inappropriate things to many a man (and then some) in Shaygrin thought that it was about time. The mother in her was less impressed.

Perhaps that was why she did not say a word, did not give a hint to her intentions before she flitted.

Shaygrin had never been able to put the feeling of being a passenger to a flit into words. Flitting when one was in control felt a bit like skiing, with less friction and all of the molecules in one's body pulled apart some way. Flitting as a passenger was infinitely less pleasant, especially when one was travelling, not only in space, but in time. The only way that Shaygrin had ever managed to adequately describe it was in a Douglas Adams quote:
"It's rather unpleasantly like being drunk"
"What's so unpleasant about being drunk ?"
"Try asking a glass of water"

Malberry was probably experiencing this concept on a profoundly literal level. 'I'm not being unreasonably cruel to him,' Shay told herself. 'It could be far worse. I could be taking him to a different world. Now that's unpleasant.'

They arrived at Shaygrin's chosen destination with a sound like wet cotton being ripped. Fortunately, there was nobody around to see or hear them. Shaygrin stood up, unfazed and unruffled, and remained unconcerned as Malberry reacted however one does when being subjected to their first flit. She wasn't worried. She'd seen it all. As long as he didn't run (and he looked in no state to do so) everything would be alright. She gave him a good five minutes or so to recover (more than long enough, in her mind) and then promptly decided that she'd had enough. She grabbed him roughly by the back of the shirt and hauled him none too gently into a dense, overgrown patch of brush.

They had arrived in what seemed to be a rural past world. The air was blissfully clean, birds sang and small woodland creatures rustled, the trees were fresh and healthy, and even the colours seemed brighter. It was beautiful, but Shaygrin hadn't brought Malberry there to admire the scenery. She pulled two primitive guns out of a holster, and a handful of ammo. She handed one gun and half of the bullets to Malberry, and kept the rest for herself. She loaded the gun with a single bullet, and clicked the hammer into place. It was a truly ancient weapon, hardly deserving the title of machinery. Nonetheless, it would shoot and that was all that Shay needed.

A light tread sounded on the dirt path. Shaygrin gestured for Marcus to load his weapon, but quietly. She sat, waiting, in suspenseful silence. Before long, a shape started to emerge. It became a young girl, no more than twelve years old. Her hair was twisted up into plaits. Not a hair was out of place. Someone had taken meticulous care to make her look beautiful. Shay stilled as she ambled close to their hiding place. She carried a dainty basket, which she was filling with carefully-selected rocks. She hummed to herself as she worked, looking intense and thoughtful, and very young.

When she had moved out of earshot, Shay leaned in close to the young man.
If I asked you to kill her, right now, could you do it? What if I told you to, without telling you why? And what if I told you that killing this innocent little angel would make many people feel infinitely less pain later? Would you follow blindly, without waiting to know more?

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

[Derelict Draught]

The hell was that!

Malberry stares hard into the grass at his feet. One second he'd been standing in the hotel room the next...The next he...shiftmelteddrained to be here. Wherever or whenever here was. The most disturbing aspect came from the familiarity of the feel. As though he'd been through something similar.

His mind struggled to to suppress the rising nausea within his stomach. He really needed to figure out what that was. More importantly, he needed to learn to avoid it. His train of thought broke as his shirt back attempted to leave him behind. Scrambling to his feet as Shay dragged him along.

A weapon and ammunition are forced into his hands. They were archaic. Old enough to barely be recognizable as a gun. The rounds were heavy and bulky, designed for breaking bone rather than precision. The air drag would be heavy and reduce accuracy. All around the weapon was poorly designed for ranged combat. Twas basic.

His eyes trace the youth with disinterest as his hands study the weapon in his hands. He could make the shot from this range. His aim would be off by the mere nature of the projectile. "I could. The conditions will make the shot difficult but she would be hit and wounded fatally."

Setting the weapon's butt against the ground he studies the girl more thoroughly. "If I were asked by my Commander, I would fire and formally request a reason after. I have no choice but to trust your command. If I didn't or was unable to act on your order, I wouldn't be here."

[Verdana]

Shaygrin's face was expressionless, but she gave off a vibe of having been let down.
I didn't ask if you could do it dear, or why you would. I asked if you would do it, with everything you have observed in your mind and no further information. And, after you'd seen my blatantly cruel performance to my own child today, I would have hoped that you'd have thought a little bit longer before agreeing so readily.

Follow me.

While Shaygrin had been reprimanding, the girl, her basket full, had begun to move off at a crisp pace. Shay signed for Malberry to follow silently and a way behind the cheerily-humming little girl. Shay tracked through the underbrush with effortless silence. Her feet seemed barely to touch the brittle leaves. For a while, there was quiet. The further along the road they travelled, the more signs of human habitation they found. Footprints here, a lost hat there. A clamour of voices, their source unseen, began to ebb through the trees.

Empathy, she said again, under her breath, so that Malberry could only hear if he was particularly quiet.
I choose my assassins very carefully, and for a variety of different reasons. However, they all have some qualities in common. One of them is this: Every single one of my assassins shows high levels of empathy.

She paused, and stopped moving. The sounds of the crowd had grown, and they were nearing the edge of the trees. Shaygrin was reluctant to break through, for a variety of reasons. She fingered her weapon meditatively.
Many of these young groups, she continued conversationally, Try to breed empathy out of their assassins, with disastrous results. Empathy doesn't stop assassins killing. It allows them to pre-empt attacks, to think like the enemy. Any fool can be trained to hide their feelings, but empathy can't be grown, and is devilishly hard to grow back once it's been killed off.

You may be good at hiding it, boy, but you have a very good heart. Most of my assassins do, underneath it all. Believe it or not, Bree is one of the most sensitive people I've trained, underneath.

Come, she said abruptly.
Stay under cover, but get a good view of the action.

Shaygrin slunk through the thicket, coming to rest near the outskirts of the forest. She was swathed in shade and concealing branches, but her view was unimpeded. She observed, dispassionately, the action before her.

It was not immediately clear what was going on in the crude, dusty village fair. Men and women alike shouted, gestured and babbled excitedly, furiously in primitive German. The little girl passed around her elders, meekly holding out her basket of rocks. The adults plucked up the stones, and hurled them into the centre of the crowd. Through the yelling, a series of animal cries and yelps could be heard. The source was unclear, until the crowd shifted.

A stout pole had been erected in the centre of the square, and trussed to it in hand-forged chains of silver was a woman. She was small, desperately thin, and filthy. Blood (not all of it her own) smeared her face and hands, and as she fought, the chains cut great, hissing grooves into any flesh they came into contact with. She yelled out in a strange, garbled language, but to no result. The villagers couldn't understand her. Blood caked her face. Her nose was barely held in place, and her jaw was swollen and oddly positioned. Shaygrin reached up and rubbed the bridge of her nose, where a small white line still remained.

She gestured.
If you hadn't already worked it out, dear, that's me, in my younger days. Before children softened me up.
She didn't wince as a well-aimed stone flew through the air, hitting her younger self squarely in the throat. Younger Shay's yelp of pain suddenly held an echo of desperate fear. The elder woman's face was stony.
They're going to kill me, she said, matter-of-factly.
Just for being a stranger near their village. They got lucky; one of them jabbed me with a silver alloy. I'm dreadfully allergic to silver. Always have been. And now, now they are going to try to kill me.

She rubbed the barrel of her gun.

And so we reach the crux of my little lecture. Do you know where I am going with this, or do I have to explain further?

[Derelict Draught]

Malberry watches the scene before them silently, turning over the options in his mind. Their probable course of action would be to rescue the young woman as watching oneself die did not seem to be high on anyone's list of values. Thoughtlessly, he loads a shot into his weapon.

"You assume such choices have never risen in the past. I haven't had a traditional war career. Shoot a woman and child or risk the entire company dying. Thats what war has come to."

His eyes break from the bound woman as she begins to shout, her words bore no translation yet his mind plugged meaning into them. Things he might have said in the same situation. Carefully he aims at the woman.

"They feared you. You were an oddity in their world. A potential threat on numerous levels. They couldn't trust you and, more than likely, they could not drive you away without risking vengeance. So...They've done the one thing they can. They are trying to destroy you."

Keeping his weapon level, he turns his eyes to the woman next to him. "Can you blame them? For preserving themselves? After all, aren't we here doing the same thing?" His gaze casts down the sights of his weapon once more. "I know you wouldn't have considered much before but that girl saved you. The stones might bite, they might sting, they might bruise but they failed to pierce as would a sword or spear."

The barrel of his rifle rises sharply as he breaks from his firing position. "If you are here for vengeance then take the shot. If not, then allow me the chance to try something different." Raising the weapon to his shoulder in case the need to fire arouse, he breaks from the cover offered by the forest and approaches the crowd from behind.

They group payed him no heed as he drew near, their attentions focused on their victim rather than the threats which may have surrounded them. With each step he heard more of the voices, the German they spoke was familiar yet at the same time off. The regional dialect was far from anything he'd heard in the past and he suspected that was a direct result of the time period. Most of the words were recognizable though many slipped past his comprehension.

Drawing to the edge of the crowd, he raises his voice to a powerful bellow. "Das zeitlose würde enttäuscht werden." He did not know what time period they existed in yet he knew the presence dated back far enough and the guard nearly as long. He could only hope they fell within the window.