Who: XIII and OTA Where: Inside what seems to be a small to medium-sized storage facility, surrounded by bits of old machinery that looks as though it's been collected by pickers. What: Well, this certainly isn't a bridge in Paris! When: Just after sunrise Rating: Maybe a bit of language, but pretty tame Open: Absolutely Status: In progress
Jones.
It had to have been Jones.
It couldn't have been anyone else, since they'd all been taken out.
He'd trusted Jones - there'd been nobody left to trust except Jones.
...but...
She'd shot him.
Was he dead? He should be dead. In spite of his vest, she'd known just where to aim. He'd have expected nothing less. And it hurt like fu...
Hang on...
No.
No, it didn't hurt. Not one bit.
That brought him up sharp and woke him a little more, to the extent that he realised his eyes needed opening. Staying where he was, he accomplished that task and took in what he could from his prone position. It wasn't much, and yet it was more than enough to have him instantly on his guard. He was in what seemed to be a darkened room, which smelled of engine oil and rust. It certainly wasn't the Parisian bridge he'd been standing on when Jones had shot him.
Jones...
Pushing thoughts of her from his mind, he silently got to his feet, his eyes rapidly becoming accustomed to the dimmed light. He was alone, of that he was sure. But just where he was or how he'd gotten there, he had no clue as yet. If he had a mystery benefactor (... Jones again, maybe?), then nobody had made themselves known to him.
Something was out of place. Something, that is, besides himself. Besides all the twisted metal shapes around him, many of which he recognized, he noticed a definitely new backpack near his feet. He frowned. More than the backpack, his attention was drawn to something pinned to it. He crouched and remained hunkered down while he removed the note from the pack and read it.
Not Jones.
Definitely not Jones.
So who?
A quick check through the backpack's contents didn't offer him any more information, but he knew he wouldn't get any answers staying where he was. XIII knew from experience that trouble would find him whether he moved or not, but he refused to stay and wait to die. Better to meet whatever it was head on. After all, whoever it was, it knew his name well enough to have it engraved to the tablet he'd found in his pack. And the presence of a firearm told him that, whatever happened, there was definitely some threat somewhere.
He piled everything back into the pack except for the gun, which he loaded and tucked into his waistband, and the key, which he studied briefly as he tossed it in his hand. There'd been no explanation for it, but he was pretty sure it'd have a function. Hefting the backpack, he made his way towards the door and opened it, exiting onto a quiet street. He closed the door behind him and, on a whim at having noticed the new-looking lock on the door, took the key and tried it. It fitted.
Okay. So it was secure to a point, and he'd stayed in worse. This would do him for a temporary refuge until he found out just what the hell was going on.
He checked to the left and the right before deciding on his route, either way seeming as likely or unlikely as the other. It definitely wasn't Paris. In fact, given what writing there was on nearby buildings and signs, it wasn't even France.