Obsidian Butterfly

Noises, soft, slithering noises, the brush of cloth. Then a sharp exhale of breath. Nothing you'd hear from the other end of the hallway. Silence so thick it was frightening, but if Edward hadn't won, there would have been gunfire. I opened my eyes a slit, then wider, because Edward was kneeling over Mickey's body, searching it.

I must not have been the only one who thought the silence was a long one because a man's voice sounded, "Mickey, you okay?"

Edward answered, and it didn't sound like his voice. It wasn't a perfect imitation but it was good. "All clear."

"What's the roger?" the man asked. I didn't recognize the voice. One of Simon's men we had yet to meet face to face.

Edward looked at me and shook his head. I didn't know what a roger was, but apparently, we couldn't fake it, though Edward tried. "Get the fuck down here and help me search the bodies."

The answer to that was gunfire. I was already as low as I could get to the ground, but I tried to get lower. The bullets sprayed over me into the wall beyond, and the only thing that kept me from screaming was pride.

Edward gave one abrupt motion. I thought I knew what he wanted. When the shots ended, I belly crawled back towards the wall. I was actually almost there when he fired again. I froze in place, face to the ground. The firing ended, and I put my back to the wall on the other side of Mickey's body from Edward.

Mickey was still carrying my guns. I took them back.

Edward had a canister in his hand that looked suspiciously like the incendiary grenade they'd put in my purse, minus the camouflaging hairspray can. My eyes widened. He shook his head, as if reading my mind, and mouthed, "Smoke."

Okay.

He leaned over the body, and I leaned into him. He whispered, "Cover me while I throw it. Belly crawl down the hall. When you see anyone through the smoke, shoot them." Then he leaned back, pulled the pin on the smoke grenade, and stood with the wall still hiding him.

I crawled to him, hugging the wall and his legs, sub-gun clutched tight. My heart was inside my head, pounding away. I had time to think, "Gee, the headache's gone," then Edward said, softly, "Now."

I peeked around the corner, my finger on the trigger, spraying down the hallway. Edward threw the smoke grenade. He jerked back around the corner, and so did I. Thick white smoke filled the hallway. I dropped to my belly, behind the wall, waiting for the smoke to find me. Edward motioned that he'd take the other side, but he pointed forward for me. He combat crawled and was almost immediately lost to the thick smoke. The smoke was bitter, like burning cotton soaked in something bad.

I crawled with the wall on my left, the sub-gun held out in front of me. I had two guns shoved down the front of my jeans now, and it wasn't comfortable for crawling, but nothing could have persuaded me to stop and adjust them. The purse stayed solid against my back like a bulky backpack. The world had narrowed down to soft rolling smoke, the feel of the floor under my arms and legs, the brush of the wall against my left elbow when I moved too close to it. There was nothing but me moving down the hall, eyes trying to see anything in the white mass of clouds.

Nothing moved but me.

Then bullets ripped through the smoke, and I was close enough to see the flash of the gun through the smoke. I was almost on top of him, and he was firing chest high into the smoke. I was about ankle high and looking up at him. I could actually see him like a shadowy figure above me when I pressed the trigger and watched that shadow jerk. I rolled onto my side to sweep my fire line up his body, still afraid to stand or even kneel until I knew he wasn't firing back.

He collapsed to his knees, face suddenly looming out of the smoke. I fired nearly point blank into his chest, and he fell backwards half vanishing in the fading smoke, like he'd fallen into clouds. I stayed low and realized I could see his feet. The smoke was almost gone at floor level, which was one of many reasons that Edward had had us crawl.

"It's me," Edward said, before he crawled out of the smoke. He was wise to have warned me. My finger was still on the trigger, and I was begi

He moved a little way, and the smoke was thi

It pissed me off, but I stayed on the floor by the man I'd killed and waited. I might have been pissed off, but we were in a kind of fighting that I knew almost nothing about. I'd somehow fallen into Edward's other life, and he was better at surviving here than I was. I was going to do what I was told. It was pretty much my only hope for getting out alive.

Edward came back, walking instead of crawling. Probably a good sign. "The area's clear, but it won't be for long." He held the keys we'd taken from Riker. "Let's do it."

He unlocked the cell that was supposed to be Peter's and went across the hall to Becca's before he did more than push the door open. I guess I was getting Peter. I dropped to one knee and pushed the door open until it was flat against the wall. See, no one hiding behind it. If there had been someone in the room, they'd have probably shot over my head. Kneeling, I was a lot shorter than most people. But a glance showed the room was empty except for the narrow bed with Peter on it.

I stood, debated for a second whether to shut the door and risk someone locking it behind me, or leave it open and risk someone coming up behind me with a gun. I left it open, not because it was the best option, but because I just didn't want the door shut on me in the cell. Part claustrophobia, part just having been locked in too many places waiting for things to eat me. Sometimes I think that last part contributes to the claustrophobia.

It had been bad on the black and white monitor, but it was worse in person. Peter was curled into the tightest ball he could manage. His hands tied behind his back, tied ankles tucked up tight to his bare butt. His clothes were still bunched around his knees, and the expanse of pale flesh looked incredibly vulnerable. She'd meant to humiliate him, leaving him like this. The blindfold was still in place, cutting a bright patch of color across his dark hair. His mouth was stained with drying blood, his lower lip already swollen, bruises begi

I didn't try to be quiet. I tried to hurry. He heard me coming because he started talking through the gag. I could understand him.

"Please, don't, please don't." He kept saying it over and over in a progressively more frantic voice until his voice broke, not from adolescence, but from fear.

"It's me, Peter," I said.

He didn't seem to hear me, just kept begging over and over.

I touched his shoulder, and he screamed. "Peter, it's Anita."

I think he stopped breathing for a heart beat, then he said, "Anita?"

"Yeah, I'm here to get you out."

He started to cry, thin shoulders shaking. I drew one of Blade's blades and fitted it carefully between his wrists, jerking upward. The cord sliced clean under the sharp, sharp blade. I tried to lift the blindfold off of him, but it was too tight.

"I'm going to have to cut the blindfold off, Peter. Don't move."

His breathing slowed, and he held still while I slid the blade between the cloth and the side of his head. It was harder to cut than the rope because it was tighter to his skin and just a bad angle. But the blade finally sliced through it, and the cloth fell away. I had an impression of red marks in his skin where the blindfold had marked him. Then he flung himself on me, hugging me.

I hugged him back, knife in one hand.