The Black Pawn

"Your name isn't really Mr. Fournier, is it?"

Ah. The hostage was awake. Émile glanced at her through the front-view mirror, but didn't say anything. He was actually quite pissed off, and her innocent little voice was not helping the situation run smoothly.

"Hmm. I thought so. This is a lovely set of cuffs you have here; stainless steel, right? And instead of an actual key, there's a key code. That's quite brilliant."

Émile grit his teeth together, but upon feeling his jaw pop, simply stared at the little white lines that stretched out in front of them on the highway. As far as he knew, Thomas' daughter was not aware of his secret side-business. But from the calm way she was admiring the leather upholstery of his car, he began to wonder if she really was as innocent as she looked. How else could she be so damn collected?

"Mr. F-- wait. I can't call you Mr. Fournier anymore because that simply wouldn't do, it being a fake name and all," she paused to tilt her head to the side. "And since you don't seem willing to tell me your real name, I'll just have to call you... sunshine."

Sunshine? What the fuck was she playing at?

Émile was having a difficult time smothering emotion from his expression. Despite being trained on apathy for years, this girl was having no trouble at all toying with him. That's probably what her escape plan was. Annoy him to death, or talk him to death, or take him off guard with her pretty little eyelash batting and buck-toothed smile.

"Anyways. Why is my head bleeding, sunshine?"

The stupid girly nickname succeeded in pulling his lips into a frown. He wasn't planning on answering her, but it came out nonetheless. "I bludgeoned you over the head with my gun." His voice was gruff, yet he didn't bother clearing his throat. At least violence was something he was familiar with; a safe enough thing to discuss.

"There really was no need to do that, sunshine." She was looking at him with her wide tawny eyes that somehow held sympathy. Why the hell would she be feeling sympathetic for? He hadn't hit her that hard. In fact, the blood was probably just coming from a tiny nick. He definitely hadn't hit her hard enough to cause internal bleeding. Oh, but she wasn't done talking yet. "Well, you know, I would have just come with you. Fighting is just so overrated, don't you think? I knew you weren't there to kill me, because if you were I'd probably already be dead." Hah. She was right about one thing. "So I guess you're going to be keeping me captive until Papa gives you some money, right?"

He didn't nod, but she did. "In my opinion, Papa is a bit too greedy. This will be a wonderful chance for him to realize this! And I'm certain that you will put the money to a good enough cause... I would have come with you."

Émile scoffed and just barely resisted rolling his eyes. The girl was even more stupid than he had first thought. The only thing comforting now was that they were almost at their destination. He made the sharp turn just moments before missing the narrow dirt road; the damn thing was always so difficult to find. The only reason he hasn't passed it this time was probably muscle memory. Shale cliffs jutted out on either side of the road now, with dark vegetation crawling up the bark of the pines. It was like driving through a tunnel with a roof of azure sky. Both safe and dangerous. But wasn't it always?

"Are we almost to your hide-out, sunshine?" By god, she sounded excited. Stupid, stupid girl. Émile opted not to answer.

The shale cliffs trailed downwards into thick, lush spring foliage. White and purple wildflowers peeked out behind the curling shrubs. Émile swerved on the left turn that led deeper into the tall pine tree woods. Pine needles littered the dirt road, almost making it invisible. It was too obvious that no one had been to Base 13 in a while. Émile doubted, from the looks of the run-down cabin up ahead, that there would be anyone waiting there for him at all. It dawned on him that this was a solo mission. He would be in hiding. There would be no kicking the newbies asses and there would be no shooting out the ranges. He wanted to groan, but that would make him look childish, so instead he merely clenched the steering wheel a little harder as he pulled up to the side of the cabin where his car would be shielded from outside and above views by a screen of pine branches.

He cut the ignition and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. His Kimber came out of its holster next as he held it ready at his side. It would be smart to peruse his surroundings, so peruse he would do.

"Are you going to let me out of here or not!" he heard the faint sound of Fletcher yelling at him from inside the car, but chose not to show it.

After walking around the cabin, he knocked on the door with the exact amount of raps as he was ordered. As suspected, no one answered, so he kicked open the door with his boot. It flew open relatively easily. He'd have to fix that problem later, but for now he would take a personal tour of the place.

"I'd really like some fresh air, sunshine! If you don't let me out, I'll slobber all over your expensive leather cushions!"

But perhaps he should take Fletcher with him. He yanked open her door and punched in the code on the cuffs before quickly closing them again to his own wrist. It was best not to take any chances, especially out here in the middle-of-fucking-nowhere Base 13. If the hostage escaped, he'd probably be fired. And everyone knew that the boss didn't really can anyone. Mr. Harding preferred instead to simply take them out of the picture altogether.

"This is a nice hide-out. Did you see all those pretty flowers back there on the dirt road? It's gorgeous here! Not like the city. I never did like living in the city so much. Hopefully I'll be able to hang out here for at least a couple days."

And there Fletcher was talking his ear off again with her foolish ramblings.

"Shut up and follow me."

"As if I have any choice, being handcuffed to you and all -- oomph." Émile had purposefully yanked her wrist with his, causing her to stumble. She followed him diligently after that and refused to say anything more. Thank god.

He led her inside, through the front room which contained only a thick green rug with brown and blue patterns etched through it. Sitting on top the rug was a brown couch and a polished wooden chair. A giant fireplace, surrounded by square stones, dominated the right side of the room. Over to the left was the kitchen, the wooden counter stocked with what looked like MREs. Joy.

There wasn't an upstairs, but there was a single bedroom past the door near the couch. A stone staircase connected the kitchen to the basement, which was definitely where Fletcher would be staying. Dirty, cobweb-clad cellars might succeed in unnerving the hostage, if nothing else did. He pulled her behind him down the stairs and observed the basement with a speculative look.

Slightly corroded copper piping traced the walls, and two gray cement poles acted as columns to support the ceiling. Émile unlocked the handcuffs for a second time before chaining Fletcher to one of the poles -- the one in the darkest corner of the room. The floor was cold, hard, and even a little damp. He smirked triumphantly. It would do perfectly.

"I think there might be a leak down here," Fletcher observed as she sat down on the cement and traced a small finger over the sheen of liquid. "Will I have to sleep down here too? Can you at least find me a bed? Or maybe I can sleep on the couch upstairs! You could just attach me to the --"

"Nope, sorry, you're stuck down here. Hope you enjoy the flowers for the next few days, princess." And with that, Émile stomped up the stairs and slammed the door behind him, leaving Fletcher bathed in total darkness. He hoped there were rats; rodents always did tend to make women shriek, didn't they? Fletcher needed to learn that she was a hostage, not a vacation buddy.

Yet, he couldn't help but feel a little guilty. There really was no reason why she couldn't have a place to sleep. If she didn't sleep, then she might be endangered. He couldn't do that; that would be harmful to the hostage. Émile ended up dragging the mattress out from under his bed and shoving it down the basement stairs to rest in front of Fletcher. She would have just enough slack with the cuffs to lay down, which would do fine. She grinned at him as he turned and stalked up the stairs again.

Émile was the one who slept on the couch, but at least he wasn't rooming with rats.

The next morning when he went to check on the hostage, she was already awake.

"Good morning, sunshine," she yawned on the word 'morning', smiling up at him as he leaned against the basement doorway. Fletcher's smile was crooked, giving her one dimple on her left cheek. Her front teeth stuck out a tad bit too far and gave her the likeness of a grinning squirrel.

He hoped his expression was brooding enough to mask his annoyance. Émile absolutely hated it when she called him sunshine. He was the type of person usually associated with grief, murder, and darkness. Not happy rays of sunlight.

But if it meant her not knowing his name, then he would just have to deal with the terms of endearment. He narrowed his eyes. Endearment, his ass. She had to be up to something, he just knew it. Why else would she be so happy? Although... he wasn't so sure anymore. Perhaps it was simply that nothing could faze her. If the situation hadn't made her crack already, then he wasn't positive if anything would. It wasn't normal. Any other teenage girl would have been screaming and sobbing herself to sleep at night and trying to escape as he dragged them upstairs into the kitchen for breakfast. Even though it had been a long time since he had last done work like this, he was used to having captives that struggled and he was used to forcing the food down their throats so they wouldn't starve themselves. He wasn't used to Fletcher. Her resistance level wasn't even in the zero range. In fact, she was doing the opposite of resisting. She accepted the cold piece of toast and egg from him with a pleasant thank you.

He felt awkward standing there watching her eat -- of her own free will. She didn't complain about the food quality even though he knew himself how horrible it tasted. He considered pointing a gun at her or playing with his new knife just to have something intimidating to do.

"You don't talk much, do you?" Fletcher asked him. He snapped out of his silent revere, immediately placing his hand around the gun at his side. He had been careless and stopped watching her for at least a few moments. Who knew what could have happened in that time? He would have to think smartly and not let her strange behavior set him off guard. It would be foolish of him to underestimate the girl no matter how easy it would be to do.

He simply stared at her, his eyes passive; emotionless enough. Fletcher had her head tilted to the side and was chewing on a piece of the burnt toast. He heard it crunch like gravel beneath her squirrel-teeth.

Then she flashed him a brilliant smile. He couldn't help but notice the flecks of crust along her teeth. "You have food on your teeth." Shit. Had he said that out loud? Now she would have an excuse to start rambling even more. He wasn't supposed to be showing any friendly social tendencies, even in the form of half-insults.

"Oh, really?" she slowly licked the crumbs away with her little pink tongue, leaving pearly white in its place. He couldn't help but like that white; it was fresh, clean, perfect. He was staring at her mouth too hard, he realized. He zoomed in on her eyes instead, determined not to give the wrong impression. It was all about impressions.

"Thanks for letting me know, sunshine."

And then he saw it. A purple bruise, dark enough to stand out against Fletcher's tanned skin, glared up at him from just below her elbow. There was another one, right below it. A third one wrapped around her wrist. How had he not noticed them before? It was impossible. They simply were not there last night. He had purposefully made certain that the hostage was as unharmed as possible. He hadn't done that, and there was no one else around to do it either.

He grabbed her arm and jerked it into an angle she would have trouble pulling away from, then nearly ripped the sleeve of her green blouse as he pulled it up. Sure enough, there were several more bruises there as well. But now something else had caught his eye. A pitch black mark was inked on her upper-arm, one that was entirely too familiar.

A delicate 'X' with a perfect circle between the upper two lines.

"What is this?" he asked her, his voice low and dangerous. It couldn't be what he knew it was. It just couldn't. And the bruises! Things were beginning to make sense, yet he found himself doubting the significance of what he was seeing. Something told him that it wasn't true; just a lie of some kind, a trick.

"It's kind of weird, really. Lately I have been waking up in the morning with bruises all over me! At first I thought it must have been something I did, and just forgot about, you know? Like maybe I fell down or something. But then again, there's just so many of them!"

"I wasn't talking about those marks, you stupid girl, I was talking about this one," he growled and dug his thumb into the tattoo as if trying to make it disappear.

"Oh," Fletcher's voice fell. "I don't know what that is, either. It's quite strange, isn't it? I think it must be a birth mark of some kind, because it's always been there. Sometimes I even forget about it."

Émile threw her arm away from him as if burned. Then he rolled up his own sleeve, baring the muscles on his right arm (which was significantly more pale than hers). His mark glared out even more darkly. It was stark, conspicuous, and Émile hated it just as much as he prided himself with it.

Fletcher's mouth dropped into a little 'o'. "Wow, we have the same birth mark! That's crazy!"

Émile shook his head, struggling between trying not to smile and trying not to smack some sense into her girlish freckled face. "No, you stupid girl, it's not a birth mark, it's a death mark. The tattoo of danger, of darkness. This mark," he prodded it with that odd mix of admiration and distaste, "is the mark of the damned."

"You're joking."

He glowered at her squirrel-toothed smile. "No. I don't joke."

Émile began to take apart his gun and clean it meticulously. He had to busy himself with something, and cleaning his gun was somehow always at the back of his mind.

Fletcher's smile became unsure, and she seemed unable to meet his eyes. Instead she watched his hands as he cleaned the Kimber. "What do you mean by the mark of the damned? What does that mean? I don't go to church every week, but I try to go as often as I can! And, and..."

She was being foolish again. "Shut up, it has nothing to do with church. Those who murder ninety-nine and one men are branded with that mark, not those who skip their confession. I admit, it's difficult to believe it... but you, you stupid girl, are a killer. That's what that mark means."

Her tawny eyes were about as wide as saucers. "But I've never killed anyone before! I can't even kill a spider, let alone a person!" She began blinking furiously as if trying to ward away tears. "I swear it," she whispered softly. And for some reason, he believed her.

"Yes, that is the problem. I am finding it hard to believe that you would have the capability to murder one hundred men. You are only, what, sixteen years old after all?" Émile was reasoning with himself aloud. Reasoning, yes. All the reasoning in the world pointed to the fact that Fletcher was probably more innocent than a lost puppy.

"Actually, I'm eighteen. And you're... twenty-five or so, right? That's not that old either. Wait... you mean to say that you have killed one hundred people!" Her eyes grew even wider than before.

"Actually," he repeated her, "I am only twenty. And yes. I have murdered many more than a mere one hundred. After a while, you stop counting. After a while," his eyes flashed, "you stop caring."

Several moments passed before Fletcher spoke again. "I thought you were a good person."

Émile almost laughed. "And watching me kill Sunglasses wasn't enough to convince you?"

Her expression froze. "Sunglasses? Y-you mean Nathan? You killed Nathan?"

Émile nodded, his lips twitching into a frown. Why was she so surprised? Stupid girl.

Her head turned away shyly, as if she were ashamed of him. "I feel really horrible for saying this, but I never liked Nathan much. I won't miss him." Ah. She was ashamed of herself. Honestly, it was a surprise. "He used to try and... kiss me whenever Papa ordered him to be my escort for some important event or another. It kind of scared me, but I never told Papa because I was afraid it might cost Nathan his job. I couldn't do that."

"Good for him."

Her head jerked back as she met his eyes with her wide tawny ones. "What?"

This time Émile did laugh, a slow, mocking chuckle. "I said, good for him. Takes something to do that, especially with a... nice little rich girl like you."

"I don't think you understand what it's like to be kissed against your will, sunshine," she told him curtly, her brow furrowed. It was actually quite amusing, watching her get frustrated with him. Her temper was pathetic enough to make an infant laugh.

"Perhaps not, but --"

"Then I'll show you!" Her eyes were brimming with what couldn't be anything but tears. Émile was caught off guard when she stepped forward and planted her lips right on his. And Émile was never taken off guard. Her kiss was like sweet poison; it would be the death of him, yet he couldn't help but savor every second of it. He didn't step into the kiss... but he didn't step away either. He just stood there, as if frozen. There was definitely something wrong with him -- a temporary malfunction in his reflexes? Fletcher pulled away first. Her eyes were now clouded with confusion instead of tears. Her freckled cheeks were beat red.

They stared at each other for one second more before Émile turned around to continue cleaning his gun, somehow not managing to stifle his amused grin. "I'm sorry Fletcher, but I still don't know what it's like to be kissed against my will."

It was the first time he had addressed her by name.

And Fletcher was strangely silent.