The Black Pawn

The first thing Fletcher did when Émile set her down on a patch of pine needles and moss was keel over and vomit.

What had she done? She had actually killed that man. Just earlier that day, hadn't she promised the man who had abducted her that she was incapable of murdering even the ugliest of creatures? But apparently even she had been wrong about herself. This... this was sick.

She vomited again.

Maybe the mark on Fletcher's arm was like a prophecy of some kind. Maybe she would become an evil villain! It didn't matter that it had been in self-defence... she had still comitted an unspeakable crime. It would haunt her for years, if not forever. It didn't matter that that man had attempted to grope her chest, she had shot him in his chest! Her sin was actually quite more appalling. It was no excuse, no reason... and she was a bad person now.

Émile stared at Fletcher's crumpled, pathetic form as she muttered to herself. Strands of her pale, cream-white hair were sticking to her face with sweat, some with vomit. He was actually feeling quite troubled although he knew it wouldn't be advantagious for either of them to show it. Should he tuck that wayward lock of hair behind her ear? So you wouldn't have to clean it later? Should he turn his back on her and leave her to her senseless murmuring? It was obvious she was shaken, and he needed to snap her out of it somehow. If she went on like this for too long she could very well do something rash and incredibly stupid.

He crouched down beside her and took her face in both of his hands, shaking it from side to side very gently. She blinked once, twice, but her pupils refused to focus on anything in particular. He gave her a rougher shake, which at least seemed to do the trick because she let out a strangled sound that was most likely a sob.

And before he knew it, Fletcher was crying uncontrollably. She grabbed the front of his suit, pulling him closer by the lapels, and then threw her arms around his neck, crying loudly into his shoulder. Émile stiffened. His face pulled up into a mixture of a scoff and a grimace, but he allowed her womanly theatrics for the moment. What else could he do? He would have had to be a souless rock to push her away. He may have been slightly souless, but he wasn't yet a rock.

"I-I m-murdered him!" she wailed, and her fingernails dug into Émile's back. He barely avoided wincing. She smelt horrid, was screeching into his ear like a deranged animal, and was successfully ruining the only pair of clothes he had possession of at the moment. Yet he couldn't help but want to snort a little bit as well. It truly was laughable. Here she was clinging helplessly to him after killing one man (and not a very honorable one at that) in self-defence, while she knew that he himself had brutally murdered over a hundred men.

"You'll get over it eventually." His voice was rough and the words had come out stern, cold, and unfeeling. But at least they were true.

Émile gathered Fletcher up into his arms and carried her over to another patch in the woods clear from bramble that didn't smell like snot and puke. He hadn't had time to grab the handcuffs from the table back at the cabin, but he doubted she would attempt to run off into the wilderness in this state. In fact he doubted she would ever try to escape at all. It didn't make sense, and she was stupid to be so trusting of him, but at least it made things easier.

He stood up and tossed her one of the few MREs from his pockets. It landed on her collarbone but she didn't attempt to move it. "Eat that if you get hungry. I'll be back shortly, so don't do anything stupid if you can help it."

After collecting some firewood for an emergency fire (he didn't want to start one unless unavoidable), Émile deposited the stack of kindling next to Fletcher's prone form before deciding it would be helpful to know exactly where they would be traveling the next day. He singled out the tallest tree in the area and began climbing. Once out of the thickest part of the canopy, Émile could easily see the woods that stretched below him. If he looked back to the North-east where they had come, he could make out the clearing where Base 13 rested, and even the little road that led to it. Beyond that was the highway. It traced around the edge of the trees, and eventually came into contact with a little town to the South. That's where they would be going. Cutting through the woods would actually quicken their travel. They could reach the town before sundown the next day, or before sun-up that day. But Émile admitted that he was a bit too tired to continue on much further now. Things would only grow more difficult in the dark.

After climbing back down the tree, Émile glanced over to check on his hostage. Fletcher was now sleeping like a baby, and he was pleased to note that a bit more of her natural color had returned to her cheeks since she had gotten sick. It was good, because he wouldn't be carrying her one step further. Tomorrow she would have to walk for herself even if he had to drag her along behind him on a leesh.

Smirking only slightly, he pulled the gun out of his pants and carefully laid down a few feet away from Fletcher. Émile held onto his weapon tightly and willed himself to fall asleep.

It felt like minutes later when the bright mid-morning light caused Émile to groan and slowly sit up, rubbing at the sore spot on his back where a rock had been digging into all night.

"Wake up, sunshine!" Fletcher chirped at him happily. He looked at her blurrily, immediately frowning. He had thought the name calling had ended. But apparently Fletcher had returned to her normal self again. In truth he liked this self better because he could be annoyed as much as he wanted and not have to worry about, god forbid, comforting her.

It only took him a few seconds to realize that his only remaining weapon was now missing. He turned to give his hostage a narrowed stare. "Where is my gun?"

Fletcher smiled widely and smoothed down her wild hair. "Oh, I just took it apart and scattered all of the pieces around after destroying them as best I could. Don't bother trying to put it back together; I'm very good at hiding things you know!"

"Bon Dieu!" he cursed. "Why the hell would you do something like that? You very well could cost us our lives with your foolish theatrics. Stupid, stupid girl." Fletcher seemed only a tiny bit intimidated by his explosive anger, like she expected it. Of course she did.

"Je ne peux pas le croire!" Émile began muttering in French. He was well awake by now and had begun pacing. Without realizing it, he had begun to count his steps as well. He stopped and turned to glare at Fletcher, who had stopped smiling her innocent little smile, but was now looking worried for his sanity. Or perhaps she thought he was performing some furious ritual in French. Émile took a deep breath. "Alright. Alright." After his panic had subsided he began to think rationally again. He dug out another MRE and tossed it to her. At least he hadn't brutally mauled the girl. "Eat this and then we'll start making our way to the next town over. There's not much time to waste. In fact, since we are now unarmed, it would be wise to get as far from here as possible."

Fletcher's tawny eyes cast downward when he referrenced what had happened that past day. But she didn't say anything more and tore open the package of the military-styled meal, eating quickly and silently. Émile had the last remaining one for himself before they began their long trek through the woods.

"You know, sunshine --" Fletcher started, but Émile interupted her with a grunt that sounded similar to some sort of growl.

"Don't call me that anymore. If you must know my real name is Émile." It would be okay to tell her this, he reasoned. Even though it was an uncommon name in America he should be safe as long as she didn't have any knowledge of his last name as well.

Her eyes wide and admiring, she looked up at him. Slightly embarrassed, he glanced ahead again and focused on pulling a stubborn veil of ivy aside. Why was she looking at him like that? What kind of look was that? It seemed to be attributed to Fletcher alone, and even though she was like a little puppy dog, it unnerved him all the same.

"Wow," she breathed, stumbling to keep up with his increased pace. "That's a great name. It's French, isn't it? Am I right?" Her voice was light but eager and excited.

That's it, Émile decided. She's much too trusting for her own good.

"Yes... I was named after my grandfather."

"Oh. That's nice." She smiled at him, flashing her buck-teeth. "I was named after Frank Jack Fletcher. He's not family, but my father always admired him, as a hero of sorts. He was in the navy during World War II. Apparently he won some sort of medal of honor for doing brave deeds. Daddy wanted me to be a boy... and he wanted me to be brave as well. Of course anyone can see that I'm neither one," she laughed awkwardly. Émile glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Sometimes I feel like I disappoint him, you know. He... he's always wanted me to be more like my older brother."

Émile was surprised even though he didn't show it. Brother? Harding had said nothing about a brother, or a mother for that matter. He had assumed that it was only Mr. Thomas and his daughter in the picture.

Perhaps there really was more going on here than he had initially thought.

"Your brother..." Émile tentatively (since when was he tentative?) began in a hard tone, "Why did I not know about him?" They both knew the unspoken question was will he be a threat?