Chapter Seven

Self-Reliance

Uploaded on 3/13/07

Sometime Later

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Boyd fell, the cement hard and cold against his knees. He let his hair cover his face, keeping it carefully blank despite the way the handcuffs were making his arm muscles seize up after staying in the same position for too long. A door slammed shut behind him and there was the very decisive echo of a lock falling in place.

He sighed softly to himself and sat back on his feet, shifting so he could sit against the wall and lean his head back. His fingers dug into his back but he ignored it as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

This was not how he preferred to spend a Saturday night, but here it was anyway.

Splaying his legs in front of him, he waited for those in charge to decide his fate, and found himself contemplating the last few weeks.

After their initial mission, Sin and Boyd seemed to have an unspoken agreement. Sin would go with, but he never really went in on the mission itself. Boyd found that he truly didn't care anymore; like he had thought before, it was something of a test for himself. He was able to see if his training actually helped, and know what areas he had to work on.

Boyd was quite a fast learner, always had been. However, some things were taking him a bit longer to properly learn. He was becoming quite good at negotiation, but his subterfuge skills remained rather lacking. It was because he wasn't used to dealing with people, or having to think quickly of solutions. So much of his life, he had all the time in the world to consider a situation before reacting to it, so now he found himself making stupid decisions if it involved social skills. He could react well in a fight, but damned if he could react well in a conversation.

Sin and he had been watching this place from afar, and Boyd thought he actually had a good plan this time. He thought of all the situations he could predict and what he should do in those cases. He even had a plan ready for the case that occurred - someone discovering him while infiltrating the facility and the five ways he could escape - but he hadn't counted on the rebels actually being intelligent for once.

Therefore, his attempts to leave through window and back door, hiding in shadows, attempting to find a uniform that could disguise him, and just confusing people with his actions or words all failed rather spectacularly. In the end, he seemed like a very incompetent mouse caught in an easy maze.

Ahh, eventually he would be better at this. He was improving each mission; it was just that he noticed something new he had not yet learned each mission as well.

At least Sin wasn't here to know that he got caught. It wasn't that Boyd particularly cared, but maybe it would turn Sin back to the mocking little smiles from before. After their conversation in the car following the first mission, Boyd noticed that Sin stopped with the act around him.

He didn't really know what he felt about that, except that Boyd appreciated it. It showed that Sin listened to him, something that very few people, if any, did anymore. He didn't really care that no one listened, but it was a welcome change that someone did. He felt a little less like his words were falling into a void, or that he was so inconsequential a being that he did not even warrant a modicum of attention. He did not want people watching him constantly, but acknowledgement of his existence was nice once in awhile.

Boyd dropped his head against the wall again, though this time he did not sigh.

The Agency had given him a wide black bracelet when he successfully returned from the first mission, and right now it crowded the handcuffs uncomfortably. Both Sin's collar and Boyd's bracelet were equipped with GPS so they could constantly be tracked. Sin's collar, however, was only removable through an incredibly complicated and delicate procedure, while Boyd's tracker was made of fake leather with a GPS chip attached. Despite that he was not about to try pulling it off. If he took it off it would be tantamount to his abandoning the Agency, and a crime like that could easily result in his execution.

And, frankly, a bracelet really didn't bother him other than the moment when it had to be put on. At the time, he had refused to let anyone touch him. He instead had rolled his sleeve up just enough to account for the bracelet's width and, with his palm facing down, he practically put the bracelet on himself with all that he let anyone near him. In the end, despite how annoyed the agent seemed who was trying to set up his GPS, no one bothered him again after that. The GPS tracked him and as long as nothing happened to it, there was no need to mess with it. They purposefully gave him something that, although sturdy, was not valuable enough to be stolen. The GPS itself was a microchip imbedded within the fabric; it was so small that not even a lump could be felt, and the material already looked worn and aged before they gave it to Boyd to further decrease any attention it may gain. It worked quite well; the rebels had not bothered removing it.

Thinking about the bracelet just made him too aware of how uncomfortable it was next to the handcuffs. That, in turn, brought to the forefront of his mind his current predicament. From there, it emphasized the need to get out of this situation as soon as possible.

He had to think. Soon, they would return and would likely reveal their intentions, and he wanted a plan by then. If they were going to appear in the doorway with machine guns they leveled at him, for instance, it would be nice if he were no longer in the cell. Although there was a new material in his shirt and coat that supposedly had some Kevlar-like abilities, he highly doubted it would withstand more than a single bullet fired from far away.

Disguising it as rolling the kinks out of his neck, Boyd carefully looked around the room for any surveillance equipment. Unless they discovered how to hide cameras in a smooth concrete floor, metal door, a single old pipe run across the ceiling near the door and brick walls, then he was currently not enough of a threat level to warrant supervision. That was good, really. He would just have to keep playing up his incompetence in order to be underestimated.

So far, such assumptions of his character had been to his advantage. But was he really only succeeding in these missions because others expected him to be an idiot, and the fact he had any modicum of intelligence completely surprised them? He didn't want that to be the case. He wanted there to be no doubt that he was actually capable of handling himself.

Even knowing that he was unwatched, Boyd shifted his weight against the wall and still held some pretense in case he was simply unaware of it. The rebels removed his weapons, but what they didn't realize is that Boyd held such blatant things as a nightstick and guns in an obvious place like a belt holster for a reason. It deluded people into thinking that this is all he had. If he hid things, they would be more likely to do a thorough search, expecting him to be devious.

For instance, they left the safety pin inserted beneath the tie on the back of his coat, as well as the one in front in lieu of a button at the top. And they gave him single-locked peerless handcuffs, like the sort the police generally used. It took a little maneuvering to unclip the pin from the tie, but he managed it after a few seconds of fumbling. He popped it open unseeingly, his eyes all the while watching the small window at the top of the door for any sign of movement.

Finding the little hole near the lock on the handcuffs took a little bit as well, since he could not see what he was doing. Eventually, he felt the pin give way and slide into the mechanism, between the cuff and the teeth inside the cuff. He shoved it in with his other thumb and, with more fumbling and shifting of the pin, the handcuff clicked open. He let that cuff hang open on his wrist and, being sure to keep his back against the wall to hide the movement from the windows and any potential camera he was unaware of, he popped open the other cuff the same way.

Sliding the safety pin back onto the inner part of his coat's belt, he watched the bars for a good four minutes before he quickly slid the cuffs into an inner coat pocket, being sure to leave them unlocked. He returned his hands to behind his back and watched the bars and cell again carefully, listening hard for any movement or sign that his maneuver was discovered.

Nothing.

He stood, thinking he was glad that he wore combat boots with rubber soles so that he was totally silent even when he moved around. Walking to the door calmly, he kept his hands behind his back again just in case someone suddenly appeared, and he peered as best he could through the window. Again, they underestimated him, as they had not bothered to blindfold him when bringing him there. He knew exactly where the cell was in relation to the building, as well as the room the target should be in.

Boyd crouched down near the door, studying the hinges. He was no expert, but he was fairly certain those were aluminum plated and the door was definitely made of steel. After the bombs hit, so many skilled people were killed, and production failed on a lot of items. He doubted the rebels had anyone truly versed in plumbing or carpentry who installed the cells; rather, they probably used what they could find and figured it would work. Beyond that, if there had been any prisoners in the cell before Boyd, they must have been too frightened to think clearly, or know what to look for.

The metal had started to corrode near the hinges, a color that ranged from rusty orange to deep brown. It was visible up close, but not as much from further away. Apparently, whoever had created this door had never heard of galvanic corrosion. They did not know to put even a layer of grease between the aluminum and steel because dissimilar metal directly attached to each other corroded over time. At one point, an electrolyte must have been introduced to the situation to have triggered the reaction. Boyd assumed it must be something like the sweat found from the prisoners, or even atmospheric moisture.

Whatever the case, the hinges were compromised, and this made Boyd's escape rather easier. The information he learned from listening to those around him and reading books... it was quite useful, really.

Standing up, Boyd looked up and down the hallway again, listening carefully. No one, not even the whisper of an echo. It was an empty hallway, so they were either damn quiet, or the nearest person was quite a bit away.

Stepping back, he slammed one foot against the door near one of the hinges with all his strength. The door shuddered but held, as he expected. He did it again, and again, and the hinges started to creak. Once more, and it gave way suddenly on the middle hinge. He didn't bother listening for anyone coming; if they heard him, then the faster he moved, the better.

Pulling the cuffs from his pocket, he gripped one end firmly and, jumping as high as he could, threw the other end over the pipe he had noted earlier running near the ceiling along the wall by the door. It took him two times to get high enough, and it wasn't until the third that he was able to actually catch the cuff on the other side, but he managed to hang from the ceiling.

The pipe groaned, not made to hold his weight. He knew it was only a matter of time until it broke, so he walked up the wall and, pushing with all his strength, creaked back and slammed into the door with both feet near the top hinge. The door groaned from deep within, like a bear roaring its death cry, and suddenly gave beneath his weight. It was close but not enough yet. It needed more of an agent. He took a moment to consider the pipe, trying to remember the blueprints he had studied of the building prior to entry, and judging by the feel of the metal. Hopefully he was correct in his assumption that this was a water pipe, or he may end up inadvertently gassing himself to death.

Boyd crawled up the wall again and, with arms shaking as he supported his weight, he pulled himself up along the pipe. It made a loud squealing noise, and suddenly jolted down a bit as one of the supports broke loose from the ceiling. His coat swung beneath him from the movement, and he pushed his feet against the ceiling, pulling on the pipe. It groaned again and gave way abruptly, almost too fast for him to react.

One end broke off, rushing water from who knew where. Without skipping a beat, Boyd braced himself against the upper wall with one hand on the rickety pipe, both feet on the wall and doorjamb, and one hand gripping a support for the pipe. It took him a moment, but he was able to jerk the pipe down at an angle that sprayed water all over the hinges.

He dropped down from the ceiling, almost slipping on the water, and took a few steps back as he slipped the cuffs back into his pocket. Stepping back, he braced himself as well as he could and slammed his foot against the door again.

Resounding booms echoed around him, as well as the water spraying wildly all over. Rather than let the sound frighten him into hurrying and botching his attempt, Boyd just concentrated harder and on the fourth slam of his foot, succeeded.

The door gave a massive, shuddering groan, and suddenly broke free on the hinged side. Boyd slammed his foot on it twice more, and it opened enough that he thought he could fit through. He crawled up the slippery metal and, bracing himself halfway in the opening, wrenched the pipe closer with one stretched hand and got the water to spray in the small window on top. That would make it too difficult for them to tell whether he was inside still, and hopefully they would think the opening too small for him to escape. Sometimes it was lucky he was thin.

Making sure he dropped into the puddle already forming in the hallway, Boyd reached down to his boots and listened carefully for movement down either side of the hall. It sounded like one person was coming from the left; the stairwell into the building proper. They did not sound in a hurry; likely, they were used to prisoners throwing themselves at the door in an attempt to escape. He was probably ordered just to check it out, and was idly making his way down.

Boyd slipped the tied ends of his shoelaces off the hooks on top of his boots and quickly jumped out of them, landing out of the water with dry socks. He grabbed the boots and ran silently down the hall toward the man. Letting the boots drop down so the knotted ties on top rested on each of his wrists, he made sure to hit the boot's toes with his thighs as he ran. This twirled the boots, tightening the shoelaces until he could jerk the boots closer to his hands, holding onto the twirled laces. As he rounded the corner he could hear the man approaching but he did not take the time to register anything except the man's placement and height.

Boyd's sudden appearance startled the man into the one second of inaction that Boyd needed. He swung one combat boot up into the man's face suddenly, the heavy heel slamming into his cheekbone and glancing off his nose. The man reared back with a cry and in that moment, Boyd swung the other at his neck. The boot carried the momentum around the man's neck while Boyd slipped behind him and, gripping the tie with one hand and the boot with another, pulled as abruptly and strongly as he could.

The man dropped the gun he carried in favor of scrabbling at his neck, staggering around as if drunk. Boyd moved with him as best he could, pulling both ends of the laces across each other as hard as he could to increase the pressure. He closely watched the surroundings, and when the man stumbled near one side of the hallway, Boyd let out a harsh breath of air as with a burst of energy he wrapped one leg around the man's waist to balance himself. With his other leg he jerked his foot out at an angle and, waiting just long enough for the man to lose his center of balance, shoved violently against the wall.

The man fell headlong and didn't think to take his hands from his neck quite in time to keep from slamming his head into the opposite wall. Boyd fell down with him, letting his weight plus gravity become a blow on the man's ribs as they landed. He didn't waste time checking his status; he unwound his tingling hand from the loop as fast as he could and yanked the boot away from the man. The rebels wore a red sash around all their arms, and Boyd took just enough time to fumblingly tear it off the man. The guards also all carried rifles on a strap, so he took that from the man as well and slid it over his shoulder.

Jumping up, he slipped into his boots again with a few staggering steps. He didn't bother to loop the tangled shoelaces over the top again; he just ran headlong toward the stairs and took them a few at a time.

He could have easily run the other way, escaping while there was still confusion and no one quite realized he was out of the cell. He could have evaded the rather lax security outside and found his way to where Sin was probably waiting in boredom, and he could have told him that he needed help. That he wanted him to return with him.

He could easily have made this a mission that involved both of them, or let Sin do it all. He could have given up, or gone for help, which would have been the prudent decision. Boyd had not actually confronted any of the targets alone yet without managing to negotiate his way out of it. But he knew today negotiation was not an option, and there was only one thing he could do, even if there was technically more than one choice.

Boyd knew that by the time he reached Sin and they could both return it would have been obvious that Boyd had escaped, and the facility, and thus the target, would have been on high alert. It was better to catch them while they were still off-guard and confused. It was better to take the stupid, life-risking path and finish the mission rather than compromise it by thinking only of his own safety.

Taking a corner fast enough that he had to arc near the other side, he sprinted down the hallway and relied on his memory of the blueprints to guide him. A few side stairs later and he was in a hallway he knew opened up to a main room where he would find others. He pointedly made a lot of noise clomping down the hall and yelled suddenly, "The prisoner's escaped! The prisoner's escaped! I've got this hallway - someone secure the others!"

There was a flurry of confusion that he could hear from the main room, and Boyd tied the sash around his arm that would be facing the majority of them. He had to pass through the room to a set of stairs accessible only in the far back, but he figured it would be fine. Boyd had researched the 'uniform' prior to infiltrating, and had discovered that they didn't all wear the same thing. Most just wore black or dark colors, and what distinguished them was the red band. If he ran fast enough, they would see only a black streak with a red bandana around his arm and a rifle on the shoulder, and they would think little else.

Something else the rebels overlooked came to his advantage. Boyd reached inside his coat and tugged out a piece of cloth out that was very loosely stitched to the lining. It was not particularly large, but it didn't need to be. He tied the black bandana quickly over his hair just before he burst into the room. Most of the men had not actually seen what the prisoner looked like; they just knew he was a blond stranger and was captured. Although his hair still hung down at the bottom, his hair color was less obvious at a glance with the bandana on.

Rushing into the main room, Boyd nearly ran into a soldier. A few people stood there still, looking a little confused as to where to head. Boyd looked at one and called commandingly, "You there! Help me secure this stairwell! The rest of you, check the other end of that hallway - I don't know where he is!"

They were rookies, that much was obvious. Again, perhaps it was just luck, or perhaps it was the fact that confidence and a sense of command could go a long way in confusing people into submission. The startled rookie nodded and trotted along behind him, while the others saluted and ran to the hallway Boyd had just left.

Boyd slammed the door open in the stairwell and waited just long enough to gesture the rookie forward. He was careful to keep his expression stern and angry, and move his head around as if searching for the prisoner so the rebel would not get a clear look at him. "Move it," Boyd yelled impatiently, and the rookie stumbled ahead of him.

"The prisoner's going for the Director," Boyd told him darkly as they ran up the stairs. "I need you to clear the hallway ahead of me and tell the guards to help me check the third wing. The recent construction's crippled its defenses; I'm certain the prisoner will come up that way but I can't defend it on my own and I bet you're useless to me in a fight."

He could almost hear the rookie swallow around a shaky, "Yessir."

"Understand?" Boyd demanded, even though the rookie had already agreed. "Get the guards, send them my way, and get inside that room to secure the Director. We'll be minutes behind you."

The rookie nodded and managed another breathless, "Yessir." He was probably terrified; most of the rookies, as far as Boyd could tell from his research, had very little practical training before they were given guns and orders. The group seemed to operate on the belief that a lot of untrained guns were more useful than a few well-trained ones.

The rookie burst into the hallway, and ran straight toward the Director's office. Boyd stayed just inside the stairwell and watched in the reflection off an eye level window in the door, which was mostly closed. Perfect, he thought when the rookie stopped at a door; exactly where Boyd thought the room would be. The rookie stumblingly explained the situation, not that he really needed to as shouts could be heard echoing around the building and general confusion seemed to be erupting everywhere.

The guards straightened to attention and peered immediately down the hall toward the third wing, past where Boyd hid. Third wing actually was the place anyone would expect a prisoner from the cells to strike; it would seem to be the fastest way from the basement if a person didn't know the layout of the building, or if they didn't want to risk being seen. The Director had ordered it be reinforced and better secured, but they were still in the middle of reconstruction and the third wing was at far too easy access for an intruder to reach the upper floors.

Because the lie was believable, as was the rookie's rushed babbling and very real sense of urgency, and because they obviously recognized the rookie by their expressions, the plan worked. The two guards hiked their rifles up on their shoulders and took off running down the hall toward the third wing. Boyd did not shut the door but he made sure he was not in view from the window as they passed and he heard them stomping around the corner. It would take them quite a bit of time to realize no one was already there searching, as the wing was vast and they would be more concerned with searching for the intruder than they would be the informant.

Boyd waited just long enough for their steps to get far away before he slipped out of the stairwell and shut the door silently behind him. The rookie was talking to someone in the room, the door tilted open in front of him. Boyd turned so his armband was visible and his body was at an angle, his head turned in the other direction as he held the rifle in front of him. He backed toward the door with confidence and sure motions, just as if he were truly a guard watching for movement from the third wing with the full intent to kill anyone who got in the way.

In his peripheral vision, Boyd saw the rookie glance back at him, so Boyd held up a hand in acknowledgement. The rookie turned to the man behind the door again and assured him that Boyd was a legit 'sergeant' (where the kid got that idea, Boyd had no idea, but it certainly worked for him) and that they were there to protect the Director.

The person stepped back as Boyd backed his way to the door, and together he and the rookie entered the room. Boyd kicked the door shut behind him and stood there guarding it for a moment, as if checking the security of it. He let the rookie talk again, distracting the person who introduced himself as the Director's assistant, and let them head out of the small hallway by the door into the main suite room. He knew the layout from the blueprints, and knew also that the man who introduced himself as the assistant was not who he claimed to be.

This rebel leader was a little clever. As far as the rookie was concerned, the man he spoke to was the Director's assistant, and the true Director was in another room. However, the 'Director's assistant' was the actual Director. It may seem a stupid charade, but it kept the Director's identity safe from outsiders and untrustworthy new rookies. Beyond that, most killers did not bother going for the 'assistant' when they thought they had the leader in view.

As far as Boyd understood, there was a man who pretended to be the Director but who was really basically the assistant. Just a simple role flop but it had cost the lives of several assistants when other rebel groups infiltrated and thought they were getting the real Director. None of the intruders had lived long enough to realize their mistake; the true Director killed them all before they understood. It was the Agency that knew the truth, and it was the Agency that would then take the man out.

Which, at that moment, meant Boyd.

He paused for a moment to consider how to get the rookie out of the way without violence. Not that he minded the idea, but that would alert the Director. It didn't take him long to come up with something that would work well enough on short notice.

"Rookie," he commanded suddenly, sternly. "Watch the door. I'll take your post."

The rookie stumblingly said something to the 'assistant' about staying still. He appeared breathlessly at the end of the hallway. "Yessir?"

Boyd jerked his head toward the door, again keeping his head turned just enough to give a partial view. "I heard something while you were chatting," he put an appropriate amount of scorn into his voice. "I want you out there watching both sides until the guards get back. They should be here soon. Until then, you don't let anyone in or out of here, you understand? Do this right and there may be a promotion. Do it wrong and you're dead."

Another audible swallow and the rookie nodded quickly. "Yessir, Sergeant, Sir." He saluted and only a little clumsily wrestled his gun into the proper position. He paused at the door, drew a deep breath, and jumped out.

Boyd thought it was a pretty ridiculous move, but he didn't bother calling him on it. He just shut the door behind the rookie and strode down the hallway to the main suite, keeping his body angled so the armband was casually in view.

He searched all around the room, looking at walls and ventilation systems, and said in the same clipped military tone he was mimicking mainly from his time in the Agency, "Any security compromises you know of in the area, Mr. Bendt?" A Sergeant would know the assistant's alleged name, even if the rookie didn't. Boyd was counting on that casual bit of information to relax the man further to his presence, since 'Bendt' had never given his name.

Although Bendt remained silent and tense for a few seconds, when Boyd did nothing but search thoroughly for something suspicious, he started to relax. "None that I know of, Sergeant...?" He let the question dangle just for a moment then said pointedly, "I didn't catch your name and I can't say I've seen you around before."

"I've been here quite awhile, sir, though I'm sure my existence does not rate high enough to bother the Director's assistant." Boyd studied one corner which could theoretically be a particular security threat as it was in the direction of the third wing, near where they were reinforcing the walls. Since construction was still going, it probably compromised the wall for the moment more than anything. "My name's Arnold, sir."

"Arnold what?" Bendt asked, turning his attention to the same wall Boyd scrutinized.

"That's my last name, sir," Boyd said, shifting his weight and turning fully to look at the man.

Bendt glanced at him, unconcerned at first, but when Boyd raised his gun his eyes widened. "You're-!" he said, startled.

"I suggest in your next life you negotiate," Boyd said mildly, pumped the trigger, and shot the man twice in the chest in quick succession with one pump in between.

Bendt stumbled back, his arms splayed at his sides, and crashed onto a table. He wheezed briefly, eyes wide and startled still, and died while Boyd watched. It was the first time Boyd was certain he killed someone, and yet he didn't feel anything. He just turned from the sight and strode toward the door, raising his hand in a staying gesture when the rookie suddenly opened the door and looked inside. He couldn't see into the main room from his angle, but when he saw Boyd he stood to attention.

"Sir, I heard shots," he said in concern.

"Did I not just tell you to let no one in or out?" Boyd demanded, trying to sound annoyed. "That includes yourself, rookie."

The rookie saluted immediately, looking uncertain and a little scared. "Yessir, but the shots, sir?"

"Just getting rid of a nuisance," Boyd said casually. "We're clear."

"Good," the rookie said in relief as Boyd started to pass him. He was just turning when Boyd pistol-whipped him in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle. The rookie crumpled to the ground and Boyd kicked him into the room before shutting the door behind him.

He strode calmly down the hall, jogged down a few flights of stairs, and walked across the main room like he completely belonged there. He nodded at a few people passing him by, and gave misleading directions when he was asked if the prisoner had been seen.

Boyd was almost to the front door when someone suddenly yelled that the Director's assistant had been killed, and the prisoner never appeared in the third wing. It would be obvious that something was wrong if he walked right out after such a declaration, but he wasn't about to push his luck by running around all night pretending to be a Sergeant until someone realized he really wasn't who he said he was.

Pulling the front door open, he slipped outside just as someone else pointed him out loudly, saying he didn't belong here. There was a flurry of motion and confusion inside and Boyd just slammed the door shut and took off running. The person who noticed him must have been one of the people earlier who knew he wasn't truly a rebel soldier, and he didn't feel like being detained again. Probably in a cell without corroded hinges or a water pipe, and with quite a bit more security.

He was halfway across the front clearing, headed toward a small, darker forest nearby, when shots were fired all around him. He cursed softly under his breath and ran faster, trying to dodge around so he didn't make a good target. It was dark out, well into the night, but there were enough lights flooding the front stretch that he was still easily seen. One bullet nicked his upper arm (so much for the supposed Kevlar) and he made a soft noise of disapproval before rolling into the minimal underbrush. He jumped up and sprinted through the trees as fast he could, but most of them were dead or dying and there was little foliage to hide behind.

A man appeared suddenly in front of him and Boyd swerved to avoid him, but someone else appeared, and another and more until he was surrounded by six men with guns aimed at him. They were glaring, but they didn't look as angry as he expected. So they still didn't realize the Director was dead, not the assistant. Good.

Panting for breath, Boyd raised his hands immediately to show he held no weapons. The rifle remained hanging over his shoulder. "What the hell's your problem?" he demanded breathlessly. "I saw the intruder running this way, so I came after him. And now I have guns aimed at me? Go after him instead of your comrade, idiots!"

"Nice try," one of the men said with a sneer. "We ain't stupid."

"You're the intruder," another man said firmly. "And you're just lucky we've been told to bring you back alive or you would've been dead twelve times over by now."

Boyd stared at him for a moment, as if he thought him stupid. "Is that so? What proof do you have that I'm the intruder?"

"We know what you look like," a third man said smugly. "Saw you being dragged down to the prison in handcuffs an hour ago."

Considering this, Boyd figured there was no point standing there arguing. The rest of the rebels were probably on their way and he knew he wouldn't be able to get away once they appeared.

"Forty-five minutes on my watch," Boyd said casually, glancing at his watch.

"What?" the man said, startled.

"I said I was captured forty-five minutes ago," Boyd said calmly. "Not an hour. Give me a little credit at least."

"You admit it," the man said, sounding both triumphant and bewildered.

"Yes, but only because you can't kill me." The men stared at him and Boyd tilted his head slightly in a strange little nod.

Suddenly, he dropped to the ground, where the darkness of the night helped cover him. One man shot unthinkingly at the sudden moment; perhaps he was a little trigger-happy, or perhaps he was just so startled that his finger convulsed. Whichever the case, it worked in Boyd's favor as the man across from him yelled in pain and smacked the man next to him when he nearly fell over.

Not waiting for them to get their act together, Boyd rolled to the side and swiped one man's legs from beneath him. As he crashed to the ground, Boyd slammed him on the head with his rifle butt. He fell still, and Boyd scrambled away just as one of the other men suddenly shot in his direction. Twirling, he jumped up behind another man and kicked him squarely in the back, knocking him forward onto the muzzle of the gun that the man who'd just fired was aiming with again. The dead weight dragged the gun down, and Boyd was in their personal space in a blink, his rifle swinging around and slamming into the gunman's face so hard that his head snapped to the side with a crack. He fell to the ground, and Boyd hit the other man on the back of the head as he was still falling.

Spinning once again, Boyd appeared behind the man who'd accidentally shot his comrade. He wrapped his hands around his finger and pulled the trigger quickly, shooting the man who had been hit by the shot man before. He stepped back suddenly and before the man could turn fully, Boyd whipped his own rifle around hard enough to break it on the man's head. He was wrenching man's rifle from beneath his body when he felt something cool press against his temple.

He froze.

"Got you, little bastard," the seventh man said, the only one left standing.

Boyd kept his hand in view and slowly stood when the gun was jerked upward, indicating that was what the man wanted. "I'm unarmed," Boyd said calmly.

"Not now but you will be when I'm through," the man growled, jerking his head toward his fallen comrades. "Think you can pull that shit and get nothing from it? They just said you gotta be alive, not that you gotta be all in one piece." He shifted the gun toward Boyd's hands, at an angle that would blow them off at the wrists without hitting his body.

Boyd's gaze flicked quickly from the gun to his hands and up to the man's eyes. "That would kill me, certainly. There is only so much blood a human can lose before they die."

"Well we'll just have to test that, won't we?" the man said, and cocked his gun. Boyd jerked his hands down and body back just as it seemed the trigger was about to go off, and the man followed his movements with a cruel grin. "You're just a scared shit little kid, aren't ya? A real man'd keep his hands there, on his pride."

"That sort of 'real man' would be an idiot, cum cripple, cum corpse," Boyd said blandly, unbothered by the accusation. When the man only sneered and watched him without moving, Boyd raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to capture me, or do you intend to stare until someone else appears and takes the credit?" He tilted his head slightly, the bandana he had tied quickly over his hair loosening a little when the tie caught on his coat collar.

Boyd's voice was calm, his eyes narrowed in a slightly patronizing look. "Or are you not enough of a 'real man' to know how to subdue a 'scared shit little kid?' Do you want pointers? First, you come close enough to touch me. Then, you make sure I don't have any weapons. After that, you pull my hands behind my back and secure them. Does that help?"

"Fucking little punk," the man growled, storming close enough to hit Boyd across the cheek with the butt of the rifle. It was hard enough that Boyd's head snapped to the side and he tasted blood in his mouth.

"Mm," Boyd said after a moment, sliding his eyes back to look at the man, unimpressed. "A little deviance from the scenario. How creative."

"You fucking--!" The man raised the rifle again, ready to repeat the blow, but Boyd slid right into his personal space and tried to wrench the gun away.

There was a struggle, and for a moment it was unclear who would win. Boyd nearly got the gun from the man's hands but he suddenly elbowed Boyd in the jaw. Biting his tongue on accident, Boyd's eyes narrowed slightly and he tried to knee the man in the groin.

The man pushed Boyd abruptly, shoving him back a few steps and catching him by the arm to whip him around and slam him into a nearby tree with a grunt of pain. For a moment, Boyd was too stunned to properly think or breathe, and the man took advantage of that to press the rifle's point to his throat.

"What was it again?" the man said with a smug look, cocking the gun. "Get close enough to touch you. Check you don't have weapons...?"

He reached forward with one hand and clumsily felt Boyd for any hidden weapons. He didn't have good leverage; holding the rifle with one hand was making it jolt around and when Boyd swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbed against the metal.

"You can't check all of me from that angle," Boyd said softly after a moment.

The man gave him a strange look. "The hell's that mean?"

Boyd shrugged. "Just that you'll miss the knife I have hidden on my back. I plan to kill you with it."

"What?" the man demanded, eyes narrowed distrustfully. "I don't believe you. What kinda idiot helps his captor?"

"The kind that's tired of waiting," Boyd said calmly. "So will you do your job correctly or else let me go? This is the slowest, most incompetent capture I've ever been subjected to."

The man stared at him for a long moment suspiciously, during which Boyd urged him silently to just hurry already. He didn't dare try to dodge the gun with it that close; the man would probably be stupid enough to pull the trigger before he could get clear. At the same time, he couldn't imagine that it would be more than a few minutes before backup appeared. And that was definitely something he couldn't afford.

Finally, he pulled the gun back. "Alright," the man said, watching him closely. "Turn." He tilted the gun to the side to illustrate his gesture, and it was exactly what Boyd had been waiting for.

Boyd started to turn and suddenly kicked up, the gun tilting into the air as the man automatically shot. Before he could pull the trigger again, Boyd wrenched the gun from the man's grip. He twirled with the momentum of the gun and let it slam with even more pressure than he could otherwise have gotten against the man's ribs.

The man grunted and stumbled to the side, and Boyd kicked him in the chest with the same amount of force he'd put into breaking down the metal door. The man slammed into a tree and Boyd kicked him in the groin harshly. His opponent fell to the ground, curling in on himself with a high pitched whine, and Boyd stood over him.

"Incidentally," he told him calmly, "I did not have a knife."

With one combat booted foot, he kicked the man in the head hard enough to knock him unconscious. The man slumped against the ground, and Boyd took only long enough to scan the area to make sure the other six men were still down. No one moved, and that was all he cared about. Whether they were alive or dead was unimportant as long as they did not impede his escape.

Slipping through the trees silently, Boyd ran as fast as he could to get out of sight before the others appeared. He could hear clumsy tromping around behind him a bit, but he only paid enough attention to know their whereabouts while he focused on getting away.

It was nearly ten minutes of straight sprinting to get out of their sight and into the huddled relics of the buildings nearby. The rebels had chosen a place within what used to be a park, as far as Boyd understood. By the time he managed to get out of view and had hidden himself properly in a dark building, he was breathing so hard that he couldn't even hear his thundering heartbeat, and his limbs tingled.

He dropped his head back against the wall and let his legs splay out before him, just as he had in the cell except this time he was free and, theoretically, the ordeal was over. Deciding to rest a little and catch his breath before he sought out Sin to tell him the mission was completed, he closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his heartbeat.

It took him a bit to be able to catch his breath, but when he finally managed it, all he could manage was a whispered, "Damn."

He didn't even know why he said it aloud.

--

After the first few hours of waiting around in their temporary base, Sin had gotten bored. He was not used to long periods of inactivity on assignment and that is exactly what he had been subjecting himself to. It'd been over a month since their first assignment together and although they'd been on a few others, he continued to act as a companion and not much else. However companion was probably an extremely inappropriate description since they'd often go long stretches of times without even speaking to each other.

Sin put his hands in his pockets and walked along calmly. Despite the flurry of activity around him, he remained undetected. He was in the park that surrounded the rebel base and had actually been there for some time. He'd been there long enough to hear the shots being fired inside the building and to witness Boyd's escape. It was entertaining to watch someone else do his job, especially since they had entirely different styles of fighting. Boyd seemed to practice some form of Eskrima; he was scrappy and resourceful, using anything available as a weapon and seemed more interested in incapacitating his enemies rather than automatically going for a killing blow. Sin on the other hand was completely ruthless but did not practice any specific martial arts form. He normally used his hands or a knife and killed every enemy he came across, not leaving any alive that could potentially pose as a threat at a later time.

The most obvious difference between them other than their fighting methods was the fact that Boyd used his wits far more than Sin did. Where Boyd talked himself out of situations or at least temporarily distracted his opponents, Sin reacted with ruthless killing blows, not bothering to exchange two words with people he only saw as targets. It wasn't as though he enjoyed the act of killing; it merely boiled down to the difference in which they'd been trained. However this did not lessen Boyd's ability in his eyes and it only proved to show him that Boyd really was well chosen for the position.

He left the park, strolling in the direction that Boyd had run. The situation with his partner confused him and he did not particularly enjoy being confused. He was used to thinking of situations and people in black or white terms. Boyd was a strange gray area that threw him off balance entirely. He did not want a partner, but yet he found himself strangely intrigued by Boyd. He did not participate in missions or help Boyd but yet as he watched him fight, he unconsciously rooted for him with amusement. He did not like sharing quarters with anyone but yet his usual paranoia had yet to get the best of him.

His original plan to torment Boyd until the boy gave up on the idea of working with him had failed, mostly due to the fact that he hadn't made much of an effort to actively go through with it. Instead of goading Boyd with sarcastic comments and mocking smiles as he had at first, he'd adopted a calm, quiet attitude around the boy that he found quite surprising. Instead of wanting to see what Boyd would do when frightened or angry, instead of hoping that eventually he'd show his true colors and turn on Sin like everyone else did, Sin found himself forgetting those things entirely at times and would often study his quiet partner silently for long stretches.

While he still resented the fact that Boyd was in his space at all, most of the time he didn't really mind the blond's presence; or at least it didn't drive him crazy with anxiety and agitation which would normally be the case. His entire reaction, or lack of action, disturbed him because he didn't particularly understand why he was behaving in the way that he was. Instead of actively trying to find a way to get rid of Boyd, he'd mostly come to the conclusion that he wouldn't make a move against him unless he proved to be a threat or at least, until his true personality finally broke through the shroud of silence it was currently wrapped in. When that happened, Sin had very little doubt that Boyd would prove to be just like everyone else at the Agency. It was typically the way things went; he regarded Boyd's current attitude as nothing more than an act used to get closer to Sin until he could be caught off guard. There were very few cases of people not taking advantage when they felt that they held power over him. That had been the case with his previous 'partners' and that was what had caused to their eventual demise.

He did not trust anyone or anything. He knew that he was merely a tool for the Agency that could be easily discarded if given reason enough and while he didn't care much for his own survival, he would not allow himself to be harmed by people such as Carhart or Connors simply because he was no longer useful to them. He would not allow others to abuse him just because they felt it was within their power, just because they liked the idea of being able to control someone they usually feared.

As far as he was concerned anyone who worked for the Agency was not to be trusted and Boyd was one of them, which was why this lack of reaction was so startling. The last few men he'd been partnered with had not lasted one week and Boyd was still here, a month later. He was beginning to suspect that his instincts were slipping. His interest in Boyd was distracting him from the fact that Boyd was not only his partner, but the person who had control of him through the collar he wore.

The thought of it made a sharp streak of anger course through his body and pale, green eyes flashed in the darkness. No, he definitely did not trust Boyd at all and he did not see the situation changing anytime in the near future. While he expected and was more than prepared for the worst, he had to admit to himself that he didn't particularly look forward to the day when he would have to kill his temporary partner. That realization was the most startling of them all.

--

Boyd kept his eyes closed, letting his hands rest at his sides. His breathing was finally coming under control, and it gave him a chance to take note of his body. His legs and arms hurt, mostly from his escape from the cell. His upper left arm was warm with blood from being shot (it grazed him more than he realized at first) and his cheek hurt from where that man had hit him.

Even distracted as he was, his instincts were getting a lot better by the week. Boyd felt someone's presence suddenly; he hadn't felt them approach, but he knew abruptly that they were there. He tensed and opened his eyes just enough to look over through his eyelashes, trying not to make it obvious that he was aware so he could take the person off-guard if need be.

Sin stood there, hands in his pockets and looked down at him in silence. Despite the low temperature and advancing winter, he wore his usual battered clothing - black fatigues, a long-sleeved shirt with a short-sleeved t-shirt on. His expression was not particularly pleasant, but he didn't look angry either.

Boyd closed his eyes fully again and relaxed against the wall. "Hello," he said softly.

His eyes flicked over Boyd's form and he seemed to take in his drenched clothing. He focused on the pale, bruised face and raised an eyebrow. "Were you captured?"

Boyd nodded, his expression not changing. He didn't even bother opening his eyes.

"Hm." He folded his hands behind him and waited for a moment before making a face when it was obvious that Boyd did not plan to continue. "How did you escape?"

"Galvanic corrosion," Boyd said, opening his eyes to look at Sin. When his partner only stared blankly at him, Boyd pushed himself up further against the wall and seemed to focus on him fully. Generally he didn't explain things, but he was feeling more amiable with Sin's presence. His voice when he spoke again was calm; he was merely explaining the situation in an almost offhandedly bored manner, and did not sound as though he was talking down to Sin for not knowing.

"I read it in a book once. Two dissimilar metals in contact can create interesting reactions. In 1780, Luigi Galvani discovered that when two different metals were touched to each other then placed on either end of the nerve of a frog leg they made the frog leg contract. Discoveries like that paved the way to the creation of electrical batteries, eventually." Boyd tilted his head slightly, his hair falling over the bruise on his cheek.

"Similarly, there are interesting properties to placing two different types of metal flush against each other in the presence of an electrolyte, such as salt water. The asymmetrical flow of electrons appears as pitting and corrosion on one of the metals, which weakens its structure. The door to the cell was well-constructed from a certain standpoint, but the aluminum hinges were not properly protected from the steel door. The hinges had started to corrode, so I attempted to just kick the door down. It was marginally successful until I broke the water pipe above the door to help. After a few more attempts, the door gave way." He paused and added as an afterthought, "I got wet, though."

"Oh." He was surprisingly impressed with Boyd's quick thinking and intelligence. In a similar situation, he was almost positive that he would have waited for someone to enter the cell, executed them and then escaped. It wasn't a particularly brilliant method but it was his most commonly used one. "Smart."

Boyd shrugged with his good shoulder. "Sometimes I get lucky," he said mildly, though there was a hint of amusement to it.

Sin nodded and stared at Boyd for a moment before walking past him. "They'll begin broadening the parameter of their search soon. We should go." He put his hands back in his pockets and resumed his casual stroll.

Nodding, Boyd used the wall as leverage to push himself up. His body ached from the last few hours, but he put his hands in his pockets and followed behind Sin.

The walk to their base of operations in the mostly deserted city took longer to get back than it seemed when Boyd left earlier. Maybe it was because he was a little slower, despite his attempts to move quickly. Buildings wilted and sat in half-crumbled ruins around them, with the occasional structure remaining perfectly in tact scattered amongst them.

Dismal clouds covered the sky, leaving the moon a vaguely lighter shadow amid the grey. It was autumn, the gradual fall from the relative warmth of summer to the freezing of winter. The wind picked up as they walked, starting at a small breeze that was like ice sliding past the skin, and growing until it whipped Boyd's hair into his eyes and pushed the bottom of his trench coat almost straight behind him. Boyd glanced at Sin a few times, but he seemed unaffected by the cold, as if he did not even notice the mist that was just barely forming in the air from their breath.

By the time they reached the building they were stationed in, Boyd could barely feel his hands even though they were buried deep in his pockets. The weather was unpredictable at times, especially during the changing of the seasons. Although there was theoretically several weeks of fall left, winter was already creeping its way into the nights.

They walked up the stairs in silence, Boyd's shoulders still curled against the cold, as the building had no heating. Their steps were surprisingly muffled, but that was probably due to Sin's automatic silence and Boyd's rubber soled boots. Boyd let Sin lead the way to the room, and shut the door behind them when they finally arrived.

A small battery-powered heater had been left burning in the center of the room, keeping the room warm enough that Boyd pulled his hands out and started curling and uncurling his fingers to resume circulation. The room looked the same as it had when Boyd left earlier, which meant Sin either did not do much while he was gone, or he was the sort to live in self-contained boredom. That would make sense, Boyd supposed, as the man was probably quite used to being caught in cells with nothing to do. He probably lived his boredom out in his mind, or in ways that did not require props that most of the time he would have no access to.

Slipping out of his boots, Boyd padded over to the corner of the room with the medic kit. Grabbing it, he filled a small tub with water from a pump in the other corner, and moved to the center of the room to sit cross-legged in front of the heater. He set the items down in front of him and started working at pulling off his coat. It was slow work, mostly because his muscles were sore and the blood from his arm was caked like mild glue, but he did not seem to mind judging by his typical emotionless expression.

Sin stood in the middle of the room for a moment. "We should clear out of here in a couple of hours."

He stared out the window briefly and then stripped off his shirts in one smooth motion, tossing them on the floor. There wasn't much light in the room but the various scars on his body were clearly visible. There were several small, circular gunshots in his abdominal area from what had most likely been a spray of buck-shots along with an obvious bullet hole on his chest just a few inches away from his heart. There was a large, thick scar on his hip which disappeared down into his pants and another scar along his throat that dipped down abruptly to his collarbone.

He turned away from Boyd and dropped to the floor, performing fast, efficient push ups.

Boyd watched Sin out of the corner of his eye, noting the scars and a tattoo of a serpent woman spread across the back of his left shoulder. Placing his trench coat to the side, Boyd ripped his sleeve where the wound was so he could tend to it. It was a little awkward and would have made more sense to take his shirt off or at least roll his sleeve up, but he never did either in anyone else's company. He rarely did even in his own.

Sin continued to exercise, completely ignoring Boyd's existence. It didn't bother Boyd that Sin didn't seem to care at all about the fact that he was hurt, but he still found his gaze wandering over to him rather than remaining on the arm that he was trying to clean.

The tattoo reminded him of something, but he didn't know what at first. After a few half-hearted attempts at cleaning off his blood, he gave up and rested the bloody rag in his cross-legged lap as he stared with thoughtfully narrowed eyes at Sin's tattoo. A woman with the lower body of a snake.

"Sin," Boyd said suddenly, the reference finally clicking. Something in him awoke, maybe some sense of amusement. The irony of the tattoo made him fall silent briefly, but he could not look away.

Sin continued to exercise, not missing a beat. "What?"

"No," Boyd said, and he shook his head a little. His voice was more awake than it had been in a long time, as if he were resurfacing from a dream as silencing as water. "Satan's daughter from Paradise Lost. Her name was Sin... You have her on your back."

He paused in mid push-up with his elbows bent. "Oh. Yes." He went back to his task, in the high hundreds by now. "You know Milton?"

"Yes." Boyd leaned forward, forgetting about the rag and his injury entirely. He remained a little more awake, his voice actually lifting into an interested, alive tone rather than the dead expressionless quiet of usual.

"He was so fascinating... Preoccupied by religion and what man means to God, yet he was still a revolutionary in his own way. After six years of intensive self-directed private study in ancient and modern disciplines he's considered one of the most learned of all English poets. He finished Paradise Lost while blind, visited Galileo Galilei, and wrote justifications for the execution of the King." Boyd stopped. He sounded like an idiot, giving a lecture on an ancient poet out of nowhere like that.

A half grin found its way onto Sin's face and when he realized it, he was glad he was not facing Boyd. He grunted and stopped doing push ups abruptly, flipping over and transitioning to sit ups. "And far more brilliant than that prick Shakespeare. But that is my personal opinion."

Boyd could not help a faint smile pulling at one side of his lips. He rested his arms across his knees, watching Sin idly more as a continuation of the conversation than because he was actually looking at him exercise. "Shakespeare," Boyd said with a hint of casual amusement, "has the advantage of being so famous that even the least literary being in the universe likely knows his name. Whatever brilliance he may or may not have results primarily from how accessible his creations are. I think, in general, being more famous does not mean anything about the quality of the work, only the timing at which it was found."

Boyd shrugged his good shoulder. "Actually, I always really liked Thomas Paine's Common Sense, but though he is relatively well-known, I haven't found many who have actually read the work. Think of how many works of art and literature are sitting out there, unviewed, because it was just never discovered at the right time to give it proper popularity. Even if he did not mean it this way, it reminds me of a quote from Thomas Paine -- 'Time makes more converts than reason.'"

"Reputation is what men and women think of us; character is what God and angels know of us," Sin replied. He stared at Boyd and held eye contact for a moment. "You're well read."

"No more than you," Boyd said with the smile remaining. More than anything, his change in demeanor was in his eyes softening from distant and unreadable to alert and engaged.

Sin started to reply-- started to continue the surprisingly pleasant dialogue-- started to return the smile-- but then the metal around his throat seemed to close in like a noose and something in him shut down. He stopped exercising and stood up, staring at Boyd blankly before turning to the window.

"We should go," He said flatly. "Tie off your wound." The words were only out of his mouth for mere seconds when he heard distant shouting somewhere outside.

Boyd's expression closed off between one blink and the next, and he quickly finished tending his wound. He could do nothing about the rip in the shirt so he ignored it and stood so he could pull his coat on. His expression was remote again, his gaze unreadable as he glanced toward the window, but he was thinking about the last few minutes.

Sin's reaction was cold, but it did make Boyd stop and think about what he was saying, how he was acting. What was he doing? Talking to Sin so familiarly, as if Sin actually cared about what he was saying. He didn't even know why he reacted the way he did to the tattoo, other than that... For a moment, it was like the tattoo was an unspoken joke between the two; an ironic, twisted play on Sin's name and nature. A story Boyd was privy to and no one else. He'd felt briefly connected and for some stupid reason that made him act for a moment as if they were here as something like friends, instead of two people with a mutual job interest. One of whom supposedly killed for sport although he had failed to exhibit any such behavior so far.

"Is that them?" Boyd asked emotionlessly, packing up the med-kit and switching off the heater.

"Probably." Sin pulled his shirts back on and moved towards the door. "Probably angry from the way you embarrassed them in the park." He opened the door and disappeared into the hallway without giving Boyd a chance to respond.

"I didn't embarrass them," Boyd said softly, mostly to himself. He dropped the portable heater into a bag, along with the med-kit. It would be obvious they had been in there with the lingering warmth, but that was fine. He slipped into the hallway and quickly followed the direction he thought Sin went.

Outside, he could hear voices coming closer, along with one or two he thought he recognized. Perhaps he should have killed more people rather than just knocking them unconscious but he saw no reason in taking endless life when he could just make them sleep.

Although the rebels were relatively intelligent inside their own base, they were not as coordinated in the city. Boyd and Sin slipped through the shadows, two dark figures that disappeared nearly immediately in a manner that was almost spectral in nature. Although they moved through the city mostly undetected, a few times someone got too close and Sin wound up killing a few people in his typical offhanded manner, barely putting more thought into it than where to step next. Within the hour, they were in the car and well on their way back to 'Johnson's Pharmaceuticals', the official cover for the Agency headquarters.

Once again, they had fallen into mutual silence.

Continue to Ch 8 ~ Files