Interlude IX — Magnanimity of the Modern Man

"What the fuck just happened?" he shouted over the pulsing helicopter blades. The city rushed past underneath, a blur of light cutting through the darkness.

"Unexpected resistance, sir."

"Unexpected—" Viper cut off as the helicopter made a hard turn, tilting nearly halfway over as it swung north. "...It was two goddamn college kids in a hotel room! What kind of unexpected fucking resistance was there?"

"The girl caught us off guard. Couldn't attempt the original exfil safely. Had to take a detour."

"I noticed," he snapped. "You blew up a neighborhood. Civilians, asshole."

"Collateral damage."

Viper glanced over his shoulder, leaning out of the co-pilot seat to look at his men in the rear compartment — ten in all, out of the fourteen he'd originally arrived in the country with. Three dead, while Rook was long gone doing God-knew-what. They all had basic medical training, and were busy patching each other up from the scrapes and cuts caused by one of the collapsing buildings. Another had taken a hunting rifle bullet straight through the shoulder.

"Syke, Piller and Mauer?" he asked, just to be absolutely sure.

"Dead."

"Everyone else clear?"

"Yes, sir. Stukov took one in the shoulder but it's clean. Entry and exit. Minor casualties otherwise. No disabled."

He took a headcount. "Son of a bitch," Viper growled. "You didn't even get Walker?"

"No."

"Turn us back around," he said, turning back to the pilot. "We ain't done—"

"Sir, we got something."

"Got what?"

His second in command — technically his third, but his second had just gotten pulverized by a golem out on the pavement, so a field promotion was in order — dug into his side pack and pulled out a tiny crumpled piece of paper. Not even a plain piece of paper as he expected, but ragged, ancient parchment, covered in writing he couldn't make out in the dark helicopter interior.

"Is that—"

"It's legitimate," the man added proudly. "Checked it myself. I saw her."

Viper smiled, while relief washed over him like the howling wind blasting through the chopper doors. He settled back into the co-pilot seat, and actually started to enjoy the ride for once. "Guess this wasn't a waste after all." He rubbed at his arm, finally freed of the sling after so long. It still felt strange, being able to use it again, but it was a gift he wasn't about to resent any time soon.

"Take us home."

It was a long, disjointed ride back to London. They landed over the border in B.C. at a private airstrip, where they boarded a cargo plane that was waiting on the tarmac. It flew them straight across the Canadian wilderness, staying well out of sight of towns and low enough to avoid tripping any flags, which meant they had to go a bit slower. Most of Viper's men stayed behind in Quebec, while Viper and Napowsky — his new second-in-command — boarded a smaller, lightning-fast private jet belonging to their benefactor.

Viper took the opportunity to sleep. It was a life lesson he'd taken to heart while serving with Rook: every opportunity he got for some downtime, he took it. Never could be too sure when the next one was coming around, and after so many long, exhausting days out in the deserts and the jungles, he'd learned to sleep pretty much anywhere, anytime.

Napowsky wasn't so lucky. Every time Viper woke up to check, the man was pacing, more nervous than Viper had ever seen in his career. Granted, they'd only been working together for about a year, but still; his recruits were usually more stable than this.

"Get some R&R while you can," he grumbled, turning over in his chair. "You know the boss is gonna keep you up all night with testing now that you're one of the gang."

"But sir—"

He clearly wouldn't just take a hint. Viper opened his eyes and sat up. "What?"

Napowsky scratched his chin, where a wicked scar ran from the bottom straight up the side of his face, all the way into his hair. An old war wound. Napowsky always told people he'd gotten it in a knife fight with a guerilla, but Viper knew it was bullshit. He'd watched firsthand as Napowsky tripped over a body and landed right on a spike of broken glass from a shattered window pane.

"You saw her too, right?"

He shrugged. "'Course I did. Everybody does."

"Who is she?"

"How should I fuckin' know?"

Napowsky shook his head. "She isn't human. Do you think…" He trailed off.

Viper rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair again. At least the chairs were nice. Malton didn't skimp on his private jets. Best rides Viper ever got across the Atlantic, without a doubt. "Spit it out, so I can get back to sleep."

"She's a witch. She's testing us."

He snorted. "Ain't witches supposed to be evil?"

"No. She's a guardian. Like… watching us and waiting to see what we do. And if we choose wrong, she'll punish us."

"That ain't no witch," Viper said dismissively. "I dunno what the fuck she is, but she's not gonna punish anyone. She'll stay out of it. Trust me."

Napowsky didn't exactly look convinced, but Viper didn't care enough to continue the conversation. Since the man clearly wasn't gonna let it go and get some sleep, he decided to distract him with some more bog-standard grunt work, anything to shift his train of thought.

"Give me a post-op."

As he'd hoped, Napowsky snapped right back into his old professionalism. He even stood at attention, though Viper never required that kind of bullshit in his squads. They'd all gone through basic, they didn't need every discipline practice anymore. Didn't even care if the men called him 'sir', though many still did. It was a tough habit to break.

"We staked out Walker's hotel room as ordered, sir. The Nishimura girl was there until around 1700. She vacated the AO at approximately 1704, at which point Piller ordered Bravo to breach. Bravo dropped from the roof to the balcony, and entered the room via the balcony door. Walker was on the bed. Stukov incapacitated him using the stun-gun, as ordered."

"So what the fuck went wrong?"

"Nishimura came back faster than expected. She forgot her keys."

"Son of a bitch…" Viper muttered.

"Since we had strict orders not to engage her—"

"You got a problem with that?"

Napowsky cleared his throat, realizing what he'd implied. "Sorry, sir. As I was saying, we couldn't engage Nishimura, so I ordered Bravo to retreat immediately. Nishimura used magic to seal the back door and electrify it, so we couldn't exfiltrate on our intended route. I had to force our exit through the front. She gave chase."

Me and my fucking deals. Rook would give me so much shit if she was here. This is bigger than me. Should've ordered them to just take her too, and ditch her again later before Corny found out. "You couldn't evade a single female pursuer?"

"Sir, she had magic. We didn't. Getting into any vehicle was a tall order. Piller hotwired a truck, and we tried a bait-and-switch. We loaded Walker in and we kept moving on foot, while Piller, Mauer and Syke drove off with the target. Nishimura didn't fall for it."

"Which lead to a car chase on every news station in the goddamn world," Viper concluded.

"Yes, sir."

"How did you get the Scrap?"

"The what, sir?"

"The parchment. The piece of the book." He pulled it out of his pocket and waved it around. "This."

"Walker was holding it when we came in. Not sure why. I assumed it might be useful, so I kept it."

Viper chuckled. "Good fuckin' call. So what, you read it while you were in pursuit?"

"Yes."

"Wait…"

He was still building his mental image of the whole chase in his head, piece by piece. Debriefing was an important part of being a part of the team, so that even if he couldn't be on the ground, he could still understand what his men had gone through. Every detail mattered if he wanted them to think he was on their side — one of the boys, as opposed to their billionaire employer who couldn't care less. Not that Malton fit the stereotype at all, but they'd never believe it unless they really got to know him like Viper did.

The idea that Napowsky had read the Scrap while in a helicopter chase was just one step too far. He laughed. "So what, she teleported into the bird with you guys?"

"Right in front of me. I swear to God. I think Stukov probably would have shot her if he could, but all of our guns just stopped working. He couldn't pull the trigger. Jammed, from what he said."

"T-shirt and jacket, jeans, brown hair, so on?"

"Yes."

Viper shook his head, still amused. "That girl in the middle of a pile of you chucklefucks, and not one of you can move a muscle. That's gold."

"It was fucking terrifying, sir."

"Don't remind me."

He didn't let it show, but Viper was just as terrified of that black void he'd felt when he awakened. Viper needed to be in control, and that empty horror was his worst nightmare. He hadn't been in control. He'd been dropped out of the world, beyond help, while Rook's shouting got faint and murky. Lost in the black, Viper was wholly convinced he'd just gone to hell, until she appeared.

He owed Grey-eyes for saving his life, for sure. Just like he owed Rook, just like he owed Malton.

"Well, hand it over," he added, extending his hand. Napowsky, with some reluctance, fished out the Scrap and passed it to his boss. Viper peered at it, and as he did, the words drew him in yet again. He'd done this before, more than once, and every time it got a little easier. Like he was acclimating to magic. Adapting.

Viper had always prided himself on his adaptability. When he was in the service, he'd never had a problem going to the worst of environments. Stick him in a desert, with little water and food for weeks on end and just Rook for company, and he did just fine. Strand him in a jungle and he'd come back out like he'd just been on vacation. It was dealing with people that really bothered him — civilians most of all. Whiny, entitled civilians that didn't understand how hard he worked to keep them safe at night. They were so exhausting.

As he lurched back into the world and set the Scrap aside, Viper smiled. He was adapting to yet another new environment, one that the world was just now waking up to, and he was already ahead of the game.