3nanashi | (no subject)

(no subject)

Trowa likes the garage. It's quiet, it's usually pretty empty of people, and it's got square kilometers full of fascinating machinery. Trowa is a mechanic at heart, and sometimes he privately misses the chance to get shoulder-deep in an engine. Milliways provides for that handily.

He's also Trowa, which means he also likes to explore it to make sure he has a clear and current mental map of all those square kilometers of deceptive and occasionally shifting geometry.

He rounds a corner, and --

. . .

That's new.

Trowa's eyes narrow slightly as he regards the wall. Its utilitarian concrete is covered with scratches and scrawled over with white chalk, delineating X-ed out circles and a single word:

S O L D I E R

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He's in over his head. Insufficient intel, insufficient weaponry. And there are a couple of long, shallow gouges in his forearm now, bleeding freely. Probably no venom -- it doesn't hurt any more than the wounds ought to, through the mask of adrenaline -- but who knows.

When you can't hold your own against the enemy, you retreat unless you have a more pressing reason to stay. Trowa doesn't; there's no one else to delay Ava for, no orders to leave no witnesses, no mission parameters that preclude a retreat.

And the intel he does have is a lot of close personal observation of the garage.

Trowa rolls to his feet and keeps going. There's a motorcycle one aisle over and ten yards down; he has no idea who it belongs to, but the keys are in the ignition. (He tested it months ago, when he first found it, and the engine started. Trowa believes in being prepared a lot more strongly than he believes in the sanctity of personal property.)

Ava's made it behind the hellhound by this time, whipping around to face Trowa. She notes the start of his retreat with a faint frown.

It's boring when they run.

Pressing a hand to her temple, she focuses in:

Go get him.

The hound barks, starting off at a run.

Is it boring when they roar away on a stolen motorcycle?

Because that's what's now happening.

That, in fact, seems to genuinely startle her.

For a moment, three sounds are commingled: the baying of the hound, the sound of the engine, and the dry hacking of Ava's sudden cough.

But as the coughing continues, and she drops to her knees, the hellhound noise seems to fade away.

So does the motorcycle engine.

And then it cuts off.

Because Trowa's at the elevators. He spins, back to the wall, his knife held at the ready, but the doors close without incident.

The only sound in the garage now is Ava's coughing, which quiets with effort to unsteady breaths.

She doesn't move to get up for a long time.

(When she does, it's with a marked lack of concern, even for the slivers of glass that have dug their way into her palm.

She gets up turned away from the dent in the car, and from the chalk writing.)

So that could have gone better.

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