#he'll make a good father despite adversity | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tagsecretsanta · 1 year ago

Text

From @thundergirl007

From @thundergirl007 to @such-a-random-rambler

Content Warnings: kidnapping, held at gunpoint.

Winter and adverse weather never seem to make the job of a taxi driver any easier. One would have thought that, if the weather is forecast to be bad, people would stay home and not try to go anywhere. But no, people just love to try their hand at getting somewhere in time for the holidays.

For Roman, it was just another night, another job to do. Smoking a cigarette as he waits for someone to come and be his next - and probably last - fare for the evening.

It's freezing tonight, and dark as hell. From the look of the departure board that he can see from out here in the taxi rank, there are no more departures tonight. Either due to cancellations, delays or by the miracle that the flight has managed to take off to go to its destination. The arrivals board isn't looking much better. It's unlikely that he'll get many more fares here tonight.

There's a blanket of snow over the horizon, covering the trees and caking the fields with a thick layer of soft, white snow, but the roads have been cleared and gritted. What few cars dare to try and drive seem to be coping well with this weather. A good sign at least, it doesn't seem like there's any ice. Even if there was, Roman was a good enough driver that it really didn't matter. It snows here the moment it gets slightly cold.

He's just taking another drag when it appears that a group of arrivals have finally cleared baggage collection and are making their way to this entrance. The taxi rank leading to the car park, along with the drop off/pick up zone just a few hundred metres away. Roman stubs out his cigarette. There's a lot of passengers, some heading for a few of his colleagues in the cars up ahead.

Just as he finishes putting the cigarette in the ashtray, a tall, well-dressed man steps out of the terminal and makes a beeline for him. He has the strangest green eyes, and red hair curled into the most obnoxious style he's ever seen.

"Are you reserved, sir?" he asks, coming to a stop a few metres in front of him.

Roman tries to smile, to act like he's not freezing his ass off here. "No sir, hop right in," he goes around to the trunk of the taxi and pops it open.

Surprisingly the man doesn't get into the back of the car, but instead opts to put his own suitcase in the trunk, despite Roman reaching to do it himself. Most well-dressed assholes like to let him do all the work.

"Thank you," the man smiles earnestly, before heading to the back seat of the taxi.

Oh well. Time to make a bit more money.

It isn't long before they're off, away from the airport and the lights, and onto the lonely lanes that make up this part of the city's outskirts.

"So what brings you here on a night like this?" Roman asks, trying to make conversation.

The man has removed his scarf, having placed it on the seat beside him. "Flying home to visit family, but my flight has been royally messed with. What with the weather, and everything. This is just a quick stop, really."

"I get it," he chuckles, "most folks are probably in similar shoes to yours right now."

"You're telling me," the man laughs a little in reply, before the sound of a ringtone cuts through the air and silences them both.

The man pulls out an unsurprisingly expensive phone and answers the caller, leaving Roman trying to act like he's not listening in to everything.

"Hey Scott... Yeah, we landed about 20 minutes ago. I'm headed to a hotel for the night, I'm not going anywhere for a day or two at least... I know. It sucks, but I shall be there for our grand reunion before Christmas at least. I hope, anyway... Has Father stepped away from the office for once or is the great Jeff Tracy planning on spending Christmas at his desk?"

Roman's heart skipped a beat.

Jeff Tracy?

The Jeff Tracy?

No, no. Can't be. There's no way. There's no way the son of a goddamn billionaire is in the back of his taxi right now. Those pricks tend to get private limos, heck, private jets! What is this?

"Haha, I'm joking. Of course with Grandma involved he wouldn't get away with making Christmas about Tracy Enterprises."

The man makes a point of lowering his voice a little at that remark, almost like he forgot that he was in a taxi until that very moment.

No, that's definitely the Jeff Tracy that he's talking about. Tracy Enterprises. Billionaire corporation. Ex astronaut living it up with his money and his family.

And one of his sons is in his taxi right now.

The chance of a lifetime is right here, right now. His heart races as he pulls to a stop at an intersection, using the opportunity to reach for his own phone beside him.

His passenger is still talking away on that call as he unlocks his phone and tries not to make it obvious that he's sending a message. This intersection has a longer wait time than most. The time is now.

Got one of Jeff Tracy's sons in my taxi.

He sends that short, simple text to a... colleague. Hopefully he'll read it quickly, and think of exactly what he's thinking, and then they can all have an absolutely golden payday.

And it'll all be because of Roman.

"Sorry about that," the man back their says, "family checking in, you know how it is."

"Sounds like my brothers," he chuckles, "they like to know when I'm coming home because they want me to bring them some food on the way."

He smirks an acknowledgement that he sees in the rear view mirror, and he is looking at something on his phone now. Probably checking his bank account or something. But he's sufficiently distracted, and good timing too, because the phone vibrates beside me, the screen lighting up with the notification:

Can you bring him to the warehouse?

Roman's reply is a simple one.

On my way.

John was tired. Travelling at this time of year was always going to be more difficult than summertime, ironically enough, but today had just been a long day and he wanted nothing more than to crash into a bed of his own. Although tonight, a hotel bed would have to make do.

He wasn't really paying too much attention to the landscape around him. It was too dark and too snowy to really notice much anyway, but it was enough for him to notice the view change from a barely visible snowscape to a vaguely industrial setting. The empty fields became concrete buildings, with small, dark windows and huge electrical gates in the side of the wall. It's deserted here, there's no industry at this time of night.

"We shouldn't be long now, sir," the driver said, turning onto a new street, "I'm trying to avoid the weather this way."

"That's fine," John replied, turning his attention to his laptop bag that he had brought with him.

Had he packed his notebook? Where is it? The notebook that has all the notes he needs to use to write his report whilst on vacation. It's normally in the zip pocket of the laptop bag, but it certainly isn't here now.

Where had he put it?

John had put his phone down on the seat next to him as he pulled up his bag onto his lap and began to rifle through it, pulling out the contents in some sort of desperate hope that he had put it somewhere else in this bag.

"Sir?" the driver seemed concerned.

"It's nothing, I have money for the fare, I'm just looking for -"

"Oh, I know you have money, Tracy."

The sudden change in the voice of the driver forces him to stop looking through his bag and finally look at the young man who had been driving him around for the past half an hour or so. The car had stopped, somewhere derelict and abandoned almost, parked right in front of an old warehouse.

The driver was also holding a gun.

Held low through the seats and pointed right at him, the driver's face is like stone and John can't see anything else except for the barrel of that pistol.

"Get out of the car," he demands, pointing his pistol around vaguely.

John doesn't move though, he can barely string a coherent thought together.

"I said, get out of the car, Tracy."

Suddenly there are men outside the taxi. Three in total, all wearing black face masks, with two of them being visibly armed.

This situation isn't some kind of joke, or prank, or anything. It's real, real and dangerous. He's got a gun pointed at him and he's surrounded.

Nowhere to run or hide.

"Alright," he looks from the driver to the gun, raising his hands in a weak, pathetic attempt at surrender. "Can you put the gun down, at least?"

"You aren't the one making demands here. Move."

John takes a deep breath. Stay calm. Got to stay calm. He shuffles towards the door he had entered the taxi in, where one of the new arrivals was stood waiting for him. Wearing a nondescript black coat and gloves, the bandana covering their face, just a piercing gaze staring straight into his soul.

"Leave your stuff," the driver barks as John reached for his phone.

He's not willing to test whether this taxi driver will shoot him for this or not.

He opens the door, and the already chilly air from inside the taxi was replaced by a bitter bite that John could only instinctively try to suppress a reaction to, for fear his numerous assailants would turn those guns on him. The man stood there grabs the door and pulls it fully open, now pointing his gun at him. He tried not to look at it.

He had never been on the dangerous end of a gun before in his life, and never imagined it could ever happen. Being the son of one of the richest men in the world, he was warned of the possibility. When he moved out of the house to go work at NASA, he had pondered the prospect of things like mugging whilst out walking home.

But he still never entertained the idea of being robbed at gunpoint whilst taking a taxi.

He held his hands up as he stepped out of the vehicle, one of the other men appearing at his right, pressing the cold, hard barrel of his weapon into John’s side. Not a word needed to be said, and John stepped away from the door of the taxi.

“Get him out of here,” the assailant still stood by his door commanded, leaning into the back of the taxi and grabbing what was John’s effects. “Good job, kid, this’ll…”

John barely had time to say anything in protest, any chance to even hear what that kid said in response, before something hit the back of his head, hard. And his world faded to black.

Cold.

That’s the first thing he noticed.

This place was very, very cold.

John tried to open his eyes, and it was damned hard. He wanted to go back to sleep, he could ignore the cold that way, at least. He hadn’t noticed it until now, had he? This hotel room is freezing, though. Perhaps he should…

His hands were stuck. That was the next thing he noticed. They were behind his back somehow, around something, with something else tightly wrapped around his wrists, keeping them painfully in place behind him. It was awfully uncomfortable. The pain of trying to move them actually compelled him to open his eyes - they didn’t adjust very quickly at all, it’s dark in here.

In addition to the cold, the dark is overwhelming and overbearing, crushing down on his chest like a vice. He managed to move his legs - only slightly – but that was all he could move. He couldn’t really do anything else to get a better view of... wherever this is.

The room was small. Concrete floor and stone walls, a set of rusty garden chairs and a table are just about visible underneath the small window right by the ceiling across from him. There's a single lightbulb above him in the centre of the room, but it's not turned on. The door to the room is a few feet away from him and it's almost certain that it's been locked. He'd be surprised if it wasn't.

Looking up at the window, he could see a deluge of snow racing towards the ground from a deep, dark, daunting sky. The moonlight just barely visible through the clouds and the snowfall, it's almost a certainty that hours have passed - the snow was not this bad when he...

Come to think of it, how long had he been here? It was dark when he arrived at the airport. Then he got in the taxi. That was... the taxi driver! He must have brought him here, unconscious and tied up in his taxi. But it's so dark, so either he's only been asleep for a few hours and sunrise is all but around the corner, suggesting they are not that far from where he was kidnapped. Or he's been unconscious for almost 24 hours, and they've had time to travel further afield. He had checked in with Scott after - Scott!

Oh god, they'll all be laying eggs with worry if he really has been gone for over a day with no contact with anyone. Although, the still sane part of his brain thinks that would be a good thing. They'll be on the lookout, surely. They'll know something's not right.

Right?

Suddenly there's a loud noise somewhere above him. Footsteps. A door scraping open. Muffled voices.

The tiniest hint of light appearing through the cracks in the door.

The footsteps begin to pound towards him, most likely descending a set of stairs. There's no way this prison isn't a cold, dark, damp basement.

A lock clicks and a door unlatches, swinging open towards him, and two imposing silhouettes loom over him, the light coming from the distant bulb at the top of the landing making ascertaining their features difficult. The two figures step into the room, slamming the door shut and flicking a switch.

Light floods the room, and John screws his eyes shut at the sudden change, making it even more difficult to see his newly arrived captors.

Luckily, he wasn't kept in too much suspense for very long.

A hand grabbed at his hair, digging into his scalp and so unexpected that John couldn't even hide the cry of pain that escaped his lips. He forced himself to open his eyes, though. The once fuzzy silhouette coming into focus, the image clearing, and yet he still could barely tell a single thing about the man before him.

Pale. Blue eyes. Dark hair. Bandana covering the lower half of his face.

Just like before.

"Nice to see you've finally woken up. Took you long enough," the man sneered, almost mocking as he tilted John's head from one side to the other.

John's brain was wired with a thousand things he wanted to say to this man. A thousand questions. But right now, he couldn't string together a simple few words. Each question he wanted to ask was vying for priority in his head and he couldn't ask them all.

"We won't hurt you. Not unless you cooperate, and then we can all go back to our lives," the man speaks with a coldness to his voice, something in the way he said we can all go back to our lives. Like he hasn't got someone tied up in front of him. Like he hasn't had guns brandished at him, or even dragged him to goodness-only-knows-where. “I also wouldn’t advise shouting for help. We’re the only living souls around here for miles, and I’d hate to use more extreme measures to get you to shut up.”

"Who are you?" John managed to ask, looking the man in the eye.

"Doesn't matter who we are, Tracy."

"There must have been some kind of mistake -"

"Oh, no, no. No mistake here, Mr Tracy. Your passport says you're John Tracy, son of the billionaire. Your driver heard you talking about your father on the phone. There's no way you aren't Jeff Tracy's son."

"What do you want?"

"Oh, that old cliche. Well, my answer is just as predictable as you're expecting. I want a fat payday from your daddy dearest and you're going to help me get it," he turns away from John to face the other man, a much younger man than the one in front of him. "Bring his phone here."

The younger one pulls out a phone from his pocket, revealing the expensive model to John before passing it to his partner. The screen lights up from the motions, and the all too familiar screen flashes up. A night sky, the view of Earth from Aurora 18, the last time he was spaceside on his communication duties.

"Passcode please, Mr Tracy. We just want to send a message."

Scott Tracy needed coffee to function.

Gordon joked that he should probably just hook it up to his veins, with the amount he consumes to come around first thing in the morning. He's inclined to caffeinate more frequently in the times when everyone is home - particularly said Gordon.

He made his way to the kitchen to find his father already there, newspaper under his arm, coffee pot brewing away on the counter.

"Morning Dad," he greeted, trying to straighten his hair somewhat.

His father turned from what he was doing to face him, "good morning Scott. Did you sleep well?"

"Not really. I think I'm coming down with something, although I'm not sure where from."

"Ask your grandmother for some medicine, or even some soup."

Scott could only laugh. "And have me hospitalised just in time for Christmas? No thank you, father."

"Good point," he retorted.

The coffee pot was steaming away by now, and the patriarch reached to pour both himself and his eldest son a coffee that they clearly were in some need for. Scott took the chance to reach for a banana and an apple from the fruit bowl, following his father from the counter to the table with their coffees in hand.

It did feel good to be home again, rather than being on the Air Force Base, and Scott was sure his father would agree with him. The house was just much livelier with five sons instead of just the one since Alan is still at school. Not today, at least, but still several years behind the rest of them in age.

"Have you heard from John?" his father asked, unfolding the newspaper.

"Not since last night. I'd have hoped he'd have told us what his travel plans were. He said he was having to stop over in Cincinnati because of the weather, but he's not said what he's doing today."

"I'm sure he'll be trying to work that out for himself. The weather can get lousy around there."

"You're telling me."

Scott took a long drink of his coffee, enjoying the almost burning sensation as it rippled down his throat and warmed his chest. Probably not the safest way to drink coffee, but he's on leave right now - he can do what he wants. For now, at least.

"When do you have to go back to base?”

“Two weeks. I have plenty of leave to use up so I figured the holidays were as good a time as any to get it –“

The shrill tone of a phone ringing out loud stopped Scott mid-sentence. His phone was certainly not ringing, but his fathers was, and Scott took a bite out of the apple he had brought to the table whilst his father went to go and answer his phone. The apple was crisp and fine, perfectly ripe and red and there wasn’t a bruise in sight. Arguably an apple wasn’t enough sustenance for a man in his 20’s breakfast, but it’s one of the healthiest things that requires no cooking, at least until he’s more awake. Actually, he’s on leave – why should he be sticking to his Air Force habits when he could just make pancakes before Grandma burns the house down? It’s the holidays, after all. And it’ll definitely be -

“What are you talking about, Jenson? Where is my son?”

His father’s voice boomed from behind his ajar office door, a demand that shook the very foundations of the house and brought Scott to attention instantly. The only son not in the house right now is John. His father isn’t prone to exaggeration or dramatics.

Something must have happened.

“Who contacted the office? Have you called the police? Is my son alive?!”

“This message is for Jeff Tracy. If you want to see your son alive again, pay five million dollars into the bank account sent with this video. You have two days.”

The face of the man in the video is a sorry sight.

Sporting a fresh purple bruise on his chin and a busted lip, he’s reading from a piece of paper that’s just not visible on the video. His voice is detached and steady. His arms tied behind his back to the pillar by rope. When he finished speaking, there’s a few seconds where the video is silent, he’s not speaking and neither is anyone else, just lingering on his solemn expression. He’s looking beyond the camera - he’s trying to see if what he said got approval. It did, because the video stops there.

John was watching his own ransom video, and it made him feel sick. What the viewer doesn’t see is the gun aimed right at him behind the camera. They don’t see anything of the dark, dank basement. And they certainly don’t see anything of his captors.

What will his father think when he sees the sorry state of his son here in that video?

“Looking good, Tracy. Time to find out if your dad really does love you or not then,” the bigger and bolder of the two men pulled the phone away from John’s face, nodding with a sick sort of satisfaction, “if he pays us, we’ll tell him where you are.”

Putting the phone away in his pocket – John’s phone – the pair of men then both turn towards the door.

The one speaking did not even look at him as he did so.

“And if not, well. We’ll be back to make good on our end of the bargain.”

We’ll kill you. That’s what he means. John has no doubt that he would too. This entire… situation, seemed almost like a well-oiled machine, they’ve done this before. Kidnapped. Held for ransom. Left in a cold dark basement.

Murdered.

The smaller one lingers in the doorway for a moment as his partner proceeds up the stairs.

He wasn’t sure, but John could have sworn he heard the man say something to him, but it was too quiet for him to make it out. Too mumbled. Like he didn’t want someone to hear him.

Except that John could do nothing but stare at him. That younger one is almost certainly his taxi driver, his voice is too distinct for it to be anyone else. Until now John had thought he was a rather enthusiastic participant in the whole affair - but seeing him now – seeing his hesitancy to follow his partner, seeing the look in his eyes when his partner made that very thinly veiled threat, seeing how he can barely look at John now.

Has this gone a bit further than he expected it to?

John didn’t have the chance to question the younger man about what he said though, because he scurried off up the stairs, slamming the door shut and clicking the lock behind him, leaving him alone once more.

At least this time they had the decency to leave the light on for him, although that’s not saying much. They could just as easily come back and deprive him of that privilege too.

He tried tugging on his bindings again. Tight, and course and chafing on his wrists painfully. Damn! He needed to get out of here, and soon. Those 48 promised hours don’t mean a whole lot when they could just decide to kill him before that anyway.

Looking around the room with the light on was much easier than without the lights before. Everything was caked in a thick layer of dust, cobwebs in every corner, and even a spider was up on the wall near the window. From what he could see, it looked like that window could be opened, and with a little bit of luck – if he was able to get out of these ropes – he might be able to squeeze out of that window.

But then what?

This needed thinking about now. He has no idea where he is, it could be miles away from anywhere resembling civilisation or help in any way. The snow hasn’t stopped either, from what he can see, and whilst his captors have graciously allowed him to stay in his coat that they kidnapped him in, it’s hardly suitable for a blizzard. No scarf, no gloves, no hat, no decent shoes. The cold could kill him before he even reaches another person.

He needs a way to call for help. To at the very least send a message before he risks running out into the potential wilderness alone and succumbing to hypothermia.

A place this remote – if what his captors mentioned was true – would have to have some sort of phone or radio. Some way for people to communicate if they were trapped here by snow, right? Almost exactly for this situation? Communications is his job for spaceships, surely he can send an SOS to someone who can help him now?

That’s decided then. Stay here and call for help. Only run as a desperate last resort.

48 hours begins now.

As does his attempts at breaking out of these ropes.

It’s doubtful that they would make this easy for him, the knots are sure to be secure. Is there something he can use to create friction? Something he can use to chip away at the rope’s integrity. All he needs is to break, burn or cut through one piece of the rope and it should all come apart, right?

His eyes dart around nearby. There’s no kind of toolbox or anything, especially not within reach. Even a piece of broken glass or a shard of plastic is better than absolutely nothing else. Suddenly he saw something small, just at the base of an old, busted up wooden chair just to his left.

A nail sticking out of a board.

The nail looks rusty and bent slightly, but it has a sharp edge and that’s almost worth its weight in gold at this point.

The board is more like a handle of something. Not too big that it’s going to be easy to grab, of course, but not too small either. And it’s just a little bit out of the reach of his unbound feet.

This was probably going to hurt.

John scooted around the pole to face it as directly as he could, and shuffled down a little from his seated position, his arms straining against the pole as he used his left foot to try and reach it. He was so close. He fought to hold back a cry, any noise that would bring his captors right back here.

He gritted his teeth. Took a deep breath. In. Out. Countdown - Three. Two. One.

He made a desperate lunge for it, and just about managed to use his shoe to grip the edge of the board. Now was the time to be careful. One wrong move could push it beyond his reach, and then it’s all over.

Taking his time and equally trying not to dislocate his shoulders, he grates his ankle into the wood against the floor, dragging it millimetre by millimetre closer.

He exhales. No sudden moves now. It’s not over yet.

Bringing his other foot into play, he itches to bring the wood into a more comfortable reach. The broken piece of chair was just about in his clutches. Keep calm. Keep steady.

He shuffles back into his original position, the much less painful one. The wood was between his feet now, and it was a considerable effort to bring it closer to him with his feet. Why didn’t he become a gymnast in his youth? Gordon would probably be flexible enough for this.

Except Gordon isn’t here. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to see that blond mischief maker in person once more time.

Slam!

John froze. A loud noise from above his head practically shook the foundation of the cellar acting as his prison. He held his breath, hoping that the sound would not be followed by storming footsteps down to his location.

Each second felt like an eternity, waiting for something – anything – to signal that someone was coming down those stairs.

It didn’t.

Instead, something else made noise. An engine of some sort. Difficult to ascertain because it sounded really far away, just barely audible.

Have they left? The men? Have they decided to go wait out these 48 hours somewhere else? It’s possible, but it’s also just as likely that either there is a third person upstairs, or one of the two of them remains. All the same, he can’t ruin this now. He’s come so close.

This part of the operation was going to be both crucial and difficult.

He needed to get the wood from his knees to somewhere close to the pole, where he can at least try to reach it with his hands. Kicking it is unlikely to work, and even if he could from his current position, there’s always a risk that he could kick it just frustratingly out of his reach once again.

Could he stand up? Itch it closer with a little more precision? Bring it as close to him as he can?

It’s worth a try.

John leaned back as far as he could, into the post with as much force as he could muster for support. Flattening his feet to the hard concrete, he pushed, trying to push himself up the post, arching his back and causing a great strain as he did so.

It was too much. He had to stop, slumping back down to the ground.

But it didn’t deter him. He was certain that he could do it, he just needed to get up a few more inches and he knew he that he could move his feet, giving him the support he needed to stand completely.

In. Out. In… out… in…

And up!

With all his remaining strength he pushed hard on his feet, his shoulders practically wrapped around the pole as he pushed himself up off the ground, arching his back and quickly moving his left foot backwards, closer to him, to provide more immediate support and relief.

He couldn’t help but exhale sharply as he stood, secure in his position, shoulders aching like mad. It seems sad that this brought a smile to his lips, but a success is a success, and honestly, it felt like he’d just climbed a mountain.

He reached out with his right foot, nudging the wood closer to him with the tips of his toes. It was much easier to do so from this position. Much more controlled.

Much quicker.

Next was to put it where his hands would be able to reach it.

Taking care not to grab impale his foot with the bent nail, he kicked it very, very gently around the pole, turning his whole body with it as he did so. It took a few moments, but he was pretty certain that if he slid back down to his original position, he would be able to hold onto that piece of wood, and hopefully, use it to saw through part of his bindings.

Here goes nothing.

Practically repeating the procedure in reverse, he pressed his back to the hard pole and slipped downwards, as carefully as he could. All was going fine until the last few inches, where he dropped straight down and landed hard on his backside, his arms straining from all the effort of both lifting him up and lowering him down in such a short span of time.

But he finally had it! He could feel the chair arm in his grip, and having a feel around of it, he knew exactly where that nail was. Still bent slightly, but at least he had it. Now was the time, he knew he had at least some time before someone returned, he had to try and do this. Had to try and escape.

With a renewed resolve and the tiniest dash of hope lightening the heavy load on his chest, he manoeuvred the wood in his right hand, feeling the nail connect with at least some of the rope on the underside.

No time to waste.

“Have we heard anything yet, Nick?”

Roman’s mind was racing as he asked the question. Their truck was driving down the treacherous terrain, the road not even visible under all the snow that had piled on over the last 48 hours. He kept glancing at his passenger side mirror, looking back where the cabin should be.

His colleague snorted. “Why, are you eager for some spending money, little birdie?”

“No. I just… don’t know how this all works yet.”

“Well, it’s guaranteed that Jeff Tracy isn’t just going to pay anyone who asks for money without thinking. Even if his son’s life is on the line. Got to let him sweat it out a bit.”

“Why not just let John go then? Just leave him. Don’t even go back to kill him?”

“What do you think will happen to you – to the entire gang – if we do that?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right to kill him,” Roman shrugged his shoulders.

“Why do you care so much? He’s the son of a goddamn billionaire, he’s wanted for nothing his entire life. A spoilt brat who takes but never gives. He will have had a much fuller life in his 20-something years than you have had in your 18. Don’t you think we should have a slice of the pie for once? Isn’t that why you joined?”

“Yeah, but… killing someone? I thought we were just going to, I don’t know… get him to transfer his own money to us. Leave him be. I’ve never actually shot someone before, Nick.”

“Wow. You really don’t know anything, do you?”

Nick brought the van to a complete stop in the road, the wind whistling past their windows being the only sounds audible to Roman in that moment as Nick turned to face him, looking him deadly seriously.

“There are two reasons why, and I’m going to explain what a bad idea yours is. First of all, if we let him die without dealing with the body, we’ll have a rotting corpse to deal with, and I am not doing that again. It leaves evidence,” his partner explains, not taking his eyes of the road to look at him, “and secondly, he’s a loose end. If we don’t kill him, people may find him. Or he’ll escape, and that’s bad for you kid. You picked him up. He’s seen you, can identify you. You’d be going down for years for kidnapping and extortion.”

Roman’s stomach dropped. He hated to admit it, but he was right. John Tracy has seen him and that puts him in danger, and also their entire operation. Roman knows what happens to loose lipped snitches – he’s only been with this gang for a few months and has already heard of someone beaten to death for snitching to the cops when caught for a “minor” drug crime.

Having sympathy for John Tracy’s predicament is detrimental to his own situation, and as hard as it was to say, he really should bury that sympathy and focus on himself.

“I suppose you’re right…”

“Of course I am. I’m the boss, remember? We don’t want to let such a stupid thing be the way we’re caught. Especially not because of some rich boy.”

Nick turned back to face the road, putting the vehicle back into gear, and setting off down the snowy road.

Roman however, could only think if this sickly feeling would go away after getting his hands on a fraction of that money.

Yes!

He was free! The rope cut away and he felt it loosen around his wrists. His breath was stolen in that instant as he wriggled them around a little, just to feel for anything. And it did! He managed to slip his left wrist from the rope, and very quickly brought them both around to his front, massaging them gently where the coarse rope had dug into his skin.

Almost there, almost there, almost there!

He removed the straggling bit of rope from his right wrist and changed from a sitting position to almost a crawl. He wanted to stand, stretch his legs, scream.

Two of the three is satisfying enough for now though.

He immediately clambered up to his feet before covering his mouth with his now freed hands – is there someone still upstairs?

He crept soundlessly towards the cellar door. Pressing his ear up against the crack between the cold wooden door and the wall, he listened. Or rather, he tried to. His heart was pounding in his ears, thumping in his chest, making it hard to tell whether or not someone was there or not. Does he want to test it, to find out?

John looked around the table and chairs beside him. There’s a glass bottle here. Covered in dust, a spider web connecting it to the old table. If he were to drop it, break it, would someone come running?

Would he be able to fight them off if they came down to check? He had the chair handle, he could hide behind the door and hit them with it when they came in. But that chair handle has a rusty nail embedded into it – he doesn’t want to kill or seriously injure someone, even if they are involved in kidnapping him.

What about if he broke the bottle, then ran back to where they had left him? Act like he was still tied up, only attack if absolutely necessary. It’s risky. Both of the ideas are.

Is it worth the risk to just… open the door, climb the stairs, and see for himself? They may catch someone off guard, but equally, these assailants are armed, and have already said they’ll shoot him. What’s to stop them from shooting first, asking questions later, especially with what contempt they have for him? Whether his father pays the ransom is irrelevant at that point, if he’s dead.

Unless…

He silently rushed to the window. On his tiptoes, he could just barely see out of the window. The snow was incessant, falling quickly and coating the horizon completely in ice cold freezing snow. It looks like he’s in a valley of some sort, or at least halfway into one, because the trees seem to be getting smaller and lower the further away they are from him. The furthest side of this valley is hard enough to see because of the dark sky and the weather, but he can tell that there are no other buildings over there. The remaining 270 degrees of the house could point him towards civilisation.

He reached instead for the wooden chair at his side, very carefully lifting it up and placing it directly under the window. Despite its dusty nature and antique look, it still felt very sturdy. It should hold his weight… hopefully.

Holding on to the backrest, he placed his left foot onto the seat and applied pressure, just to see what would happen. It didn’t feel like it was going to completely collapse on him. He added his other foot and knelt on top of the chair for a few seconds.

They passed like an eternity, but pass they did, and he felt brave enough to try and stand on the seat.

There was a tiny wobble as he did so, but holding onto the tiniest windowsill in existence helped him regain his balance.

Well, this was a double-edged sword. He was both able to see more thanks to perspective and see less thanks to the worsening weather. That snowy fog had set in now, reducing visibility to just about 20 yards. He couldn’t even see the other side of the valley he was supposedly on.

If he was even on one at all.

On the one hand, it looked like this window could be opened, and he might just be able to crawl out of here.

But did he really want to?

It feels like he’s jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, here. If he gets outside, he’s not got long before he needs to either find help, shelter, or both before he succumbs to the bitter cold. If this cellar was any indication of how freezing it was down here, then he’d have… twenty minutes perhaps? Based on how he’s dressed now. There’s no guarantee here. And besides, he’d be leaving footprints. His only hope in that regard is the weather covering them up quickly.

Unless…

John started fiddling with the handle, unlocking it, and managing to push the window open as wide as it would go, fighting his way through the resisting snow as he did so. The cold front instantly hit him hard. A gust of wind blowing some of the loose snow into the basement with him.

He couldn’t give up now. He had to try this anyway.

He pulled his coat sleeve over his hand and gripped the hem of his sleeve in his now covered fist, using it to sweep away huge swaths of soft, freshly laid snow away from the window as much as he could. It all clung to his coat like it was magnetised, but most of the snow was being shifted.

John dashed off the snow from his sleeve and prepared to climb up.

He grabbed onto the outside of the window frame, pulling to see if it would take his weight, and then tried to force his head through, pushing up from the old chair,

It must look ridiculous to witness. He managed to pull himself partway through the window, his waist slightly caught on the catch at the bottom of the window frame. He could feel the open window against his back, practically preventing him from retreating now even if he wanted to. He kicked hard, as if kicking thin air was going to push him through at all.

But he wasn’t giving up yet. He could move, very slowly, very surely. He was making progress.

He knew he was through when he felt the window catch on his ankle before slamming loudly.

And he froze.

That was loud. Anyone in the house would have heard that.

For a moment, all he could do was lie there, on his front, in the snow like a fish out of water, waiting to see or hear anyone coming.

But no one came.

There must not be anyone in that house right now.

John scrambled to his feet, bringing his arms to his chest, and trying to keep warm. He needed to be quick. If there really was no one in the house, he could have a look around, see if there is something in there that can help him. A phone, a radio, clothes for this weather.

He began to run around the outside of the house. It looked to be a cabin of some description. Made of wood, with windows that were covered by curtains to prevent him from seeing in all of them. Perhaps it is not in use all year round, hence why his kidnappers thought this was a good place to keep him hidden from everyone that could have seen, heard or helped him. It would also explain why there are summer chairs and tables down in that cellar, it’s only getting use out here in good weather.

That does reduce the chances of warm winter clothing being here. But hopefully he can still find something useful inside. A bedsheet or blanket is better than nothing.

He reached for the door… and stopped.

What if there is an alarm system on this door? On the windows? It would alert the people whose house this is, and if those people are the ones who kidnapped him, it would certainly send them running right back to him!

On the other hand, what if this house doesn’t belong to them? If this house is someone else’s, some innocent party. It could alert them that someone is in his house, could alert the police.

But what if they think he’s the one who broke in? He could get into a lot of trouble with that.

He can’t stay out here forever. He needs to come up with a plan. Besides, there’s no way he can break a door down with his bare hands, not in this weather anyway.

He saw a relatively low window around the back of the building, and whilst he could not tell what was inside at this point here, he could take a chance and break in here.

Well, there was no chance of opening it from the outside.

His fingers tingled from the bitter air, what snow remained stuck to his clothing also helping to freeze him. He cupped his hands and brought them to his face, blowing hot air into them, just something to alleviate this.

He can’t stay here.

There’s a wood store just a few feet away, right beside what looks like a shed. The wood is chopped and not covered up for some reason – unless the cover has blown away. But this gave him an idea.

He grabbed one of the chunks of log, feeling its damp, rough outer shell bite into his skin. He rushed back to the window, braced himself, and threw it at the window.

It bounced right off it.

This wasn’t how he planned for this to go.

He picked it right back up, stood right in front of the window, and started hitting at the top right corner, banging with all the strength he could muster. A crack began to form from the impact – a pale, snow white spider web that gets bigger every time he drives the log into the same spot. He can hear the tiniest sound of cracking in the glass – it’s a sign that both gives him enormous relief and apprehension for when it will completely give way.

The weapon he’s using to smash the window is starting to splinter. He can feel them in his grip, digging in hard, piercing him on a microscopic level.

But this is more important.

It took some time to break, but when it did, the breakthrough came quickly.

The whole thing shattered into several larger pieces, and hundreds of tiny shards, sending them flying both into the house and outside.

He used the log to try and clear away the straggling pieces of pain that remained in the frame.

“Ah, damn it!” he cried before he could stop himself, catching the side of his hand on some glass. It was bleeding quickly, and he brought the hand to his chest, trying to apply what pressure he could. The cold air and his warm blood were not a recipe for a good experience.

It was only here that he realised no alarm was blaring. No flashing lights or any sort of alert that someone had broken into this house.

He supposed that he was owed some good fortune, at least, and didn’t waste any more time. Pushing the curtain aside, he scrambled in through the broken window and tried not to step in too much glass. The last thing he needed was holes in his shoes if he needed to run out of here into the snow.

It looks like he’s in a corridor connecting the kitchen to the living area. Or at least, he assumed it was the living area. This floor of the house was much tidier than the cellar would suggest, but still in a state of disuse. There’s sparse furniture – barely even a chair in the living room, let alone anything else in there like a table, bookshelf or paintings hanging on the wall. The wallpaper was peeling in the corners, damp setting in through the ceiling, the curtains were discoloured and murky. Discoloured patches on the walls from where things had once been hanging and had not been for some time.

Abandoned. Deserted. Empty.

John rushed down the corridor, sucking some of the blood from the wound and pressing it back against his coat. Kitchen. Kitchen’ll have something to stem this bleeding, surely. A towel, maybe. Hopefully even a first aid kit, especially if this place is being used as a hideout by those men. There’s bound to be something, anything!

He was right. The kitchen seems to be where any sign of life is around here. Dirty and used utensils, a few water bottles. There are things here, and things are important right now.

Anything in the most desperate situation can become the most useful thing in the whole world.

He wrenched open cupboards and drawers, not finding a whole lot. The occasional pan, plate and cup, but mostly spider webs and dust. It looks like all his captors left was their litter. This isn’t much good to him here.

There was a set of stairs leading up from the kitchen just beside this set of cupboards, and a door just next to them too. Pulling open the door, he realised there was a padlock at the top of the door. That’s the stairs to the cellar then. He’d have never made it out of this door even if he tried to climb these stairs.

There was a pair of rusty old scissors in one of the cupboards and picked them up. Cold to the touch, and when he tried flexing the jaws of the tool, it took effort. They were clearly last used years ago. But they were quite sharp, and he was able to loosen them somewhat with a bit of gentle work. There was no sign of any towels or anything sanitary to use to clean this wound, so improvising it is. He grabbed the hem of the nearest curtain and cut along the width of the fabric. Not too much, but enough for him to wrap the murky green fabric around his hand.

Not the cleanest, especially not since he cut it with a rusty knife, but he’s certain that his father got him fully vaccinated as a child. Any consequences from his makeshift first aid can be dealt with later, that’s a problem for future John, the John-who-is-not-here-anymore.

The blood was stemmed for now, seeping through some of the layers of the fabric, but it should stop soon (hopefully, he thought). His coat was a write off though – he looked like he had murdered someone – and certainly wasn’t getting those stains out. There was just enough that it’s clear he’s not bleeding to death but that he was seriously injured.

Immediate first aid situation dealt with.

Next is an SOS.

It was fair to assume that based on the lack of… anything resembling furniture in this house, that finding working technology was going to be a no go. But all the same, this place is remote enough that surely someone who previously lived here needed to contact someone during inclement weather, no? There will hardly be telephone wires and even if there are, this weather will have truly messed with them.

Even so, he works in communications. It’s his whole job. Finding a way to communicate is priority one and even if it’s a walkie-talkie he finds, he could make use from it.

Think, John, think!

Where is the most likely place for a radio receiver to be in a house in the middle of nowhere?

Upstairs? It’s worth a try, there isn’t much else down here.

Upstairs was much, much smaller than downstairs by a considerable amount. There was only two rooms connected to the landing. One was a bathroom, the other a bedroom.

The bathroom was more of a wet room than a bathroom as such. Tiled, clinical, still as filthy as the remainder of the house. There wasn’t anything in this room – even the showerhead was missing from behind the glass. The skylight here wasn’t doing much to illuminate the room from all the snow weighing down on it.

The bedroom was barely any better. There was an old, springy mattress on an antique four poster bed. The mattress was in a sorry state, greying, frayed and a few springs poking out of the holes that were present on top. Not a bedsheet in sight.

There was an enormous wardrobe leaned against the wall.

And in that wardrobe? There was nothing of any use. Just another empty thing in this house!

John even went and flipped the mattress on the bed, just in case there was something there.

This was getting difficult now. Getting stressful. He has no idea how long it’s been since those men left, and even less of an idea of how long it will be before they return. They could come back any minute now and it’d be over. They have guns, he doesn’t. He can’t take on two of them – what if they brought back more this time?

It doesn’t bare thinking about.

He could feel the blood pumping through the wound in his makeshift tourniquet, feel his heart pounding in his chest. Thoughts racing through his head. Words never said. Emotions never expressed. Feelings never experienced. Seeing his family one last time. Being among the stars in the sky.

He ran his hands through his hair, feeling the lump rise in his throat and the bitter tightness in his windpipe. That awful, horrible, familiar feeling.

Tears threatening to overwhelm him.

He hitched his breath, desperate to stop this feeling in its tracks. Dying to just not feel this way. It’s not productive. Not going to help. Not going to do anything.

But that horse has long since bolted. Far too late to lock the barn now.

His knees gave way beneath him, and he was left gripping the edge of the mattress as well as that rusty pair of scissors that he had brought up here, squeezing the very life out of cold, unfeeling, all but dead metal.

It hurt to cry, hurt to feel anything in this situation. To realise how close he is to losing all that he holds dear in such a… such a horrific turn of events. He was going home for the holidays and yet he’s here, bawling his pathetic eyes out in the middle of nowhere.

Please. Just one mercy. That’s all he asks. Just one more chance at everything. This isn’t fair. Not a way to…

No.

He can’t die here. Can’t. Won’t.

John Glenn Tracy will not let it end here.

He will survive.

One last chance.

There was one last object of interest in his room. An old letter writing desk, with the cover locked over it and everything. Well, not locked. Simply closed. He undid the catch and opened the desk properly.

That’s when he saw it.

A radio.

Old, battered, dirty. But when he flicked at one of the switches and saw one of the lights turn on… The sight of such a primitive but lifesaving piece of technology brought a swelling feeling of relief washing over him, like a wave crashing over him.

He practically knelt in front of it, transfixed over that tiny little light staring back at him, like a child following a fish around a tank – pure fascination.

It seemed to be working. Definitely capable of sending and receiving transmissions. There was a pair of headphones that he put over his ears, hearing the all too familiar crackle of dead radio signals over the airwaves. He pulled the microphone closer, tapping the metal cover and hearing the thrillingly heart-stopping pom-pom in his ears.

This might work.

This might… actually work!

“Mayday, mayday, this is John Tracy.” He began his announcement, steeling his voice and speaking with the same voice he uses in space, of all places. “I was kidnapped two days ago, and I need assistance. Can anyone hear me?”

The radio cackles back at him. No reply.

Yet.

He begins to repeat his call over the air. “Mayday, mayday, this is John Tracy calling anyone in the area for assistance. Can anyone hear me?”

Still, nothing.

He fiddles with the frequency, turning the dial and listening… waiting for the tiniest, most infinitesimal change in the tone of the sound. A sign that someone was there, someone was able to help.

Call for help. Change frequency. Rinse. Repeat.

“Mayday, mayday…” he felt his throat burn from the repeated calls, the lack of any water provided making what is literally his job much harder than it needs to be.

And the worst part was, it was making the process monotonous. Listening into nothing for ages makes his brain hurt, dehydration providing the backdrop for a migraine that is only going to make this worse. It felt like an eternity, between each broadcast being made and silence received in return. Perhaps he hoped someone was there, just not able to answer, with them fruitlessly hoping he would announce his position.

In fact… what if he tried that? He doesn’t know much, but every little bit helps, right?

“I need help, I was kidnapped, please respond. I’m not sure where I am, an abandoned house I think. Can anyone -”

“… lo?”

John’s heart leapt out of his chest.

A person?

“Is someone there?” he asked, speaking clearer and with more focus than before. “Can someone hear me?”

The pause felt interminable.

“- Tracy, we’re reading you, strength four.”

“Oh, my god, yes!” he couldn’t help but cry out. Finally! He was through, through to someone, he was talking to someone else! “Please, I need help. I’m not sure where I am, but the men, they’ll be back soon. I -”

“I’ve got a general fix on your position based on your transmission, Mr Tracy. Don’t move, I’ve got a search and rescue squad headed for you now. Stand by.”

The last few days felt like a whirlwind of adrenaline for the entire Tracy family, but John was certainly the one feeling the burn in his head even now. Turning over in his bed, cocooned in his darkened bedroom beneath several blankets, he just wanted to sleep forever.

“How are you feeling John?” Scott knocked gently on the door and announced his question without stepping into the threshold.

John stirred, rubbing his eyes as he came around a little more.

“Tired, I think,” he answered, looking at the watch on his wrist and immediately shooting up.

His elder brother marched in, “don’t get up,” Scott said in the Scott Tracy patented do not disobey my words in this moment voice that he’s perfected ever since they were boys.

“It’s nearly two in the afternoon, Scott, I shouldn’t be in bed -” he tried to protest, but he was held down by a gentle hand on the shoulder.

“You must have needed that beauty rest then. You were suffering from fatigue and pneumonia pretty badly.”

John knew he wouldn’t be able to win against his brother, so stood down whilst offering the most pathetic protest. “I’m fine now, Scott. I swear.”

Feeling fine was all he could feel. The police had spoken to him yesterday – or when was it? It feels like months ago – they had managed to track down three men involved in his disappearance. Local gang members in Cincinnati, small time crooks hoping for a big break. Small fish, for lack of a better term. A refined racket for what they had in resources as a bunch of kids and adults with a bone to pick.

Scouts identified targets as taxi drivers, they reported anyone potentially worth robbing, and the rest of the gang did the hard part. Except John wasn’t just worth robbing – he was worth ransom.

Somehow this did not make John feel any better about his survival.

Scott sits himself down on the side of the bed next to him. “It’s easy to say, isn’t it? Yes, physically, you’re fine. But take my word for it. Your brain needs more rest regardless of how your body protests that you want to get up. And I know you want to get up, it must suck to be here like this. But for once, I’m with grandma on this one. You went through a lot and need that rest more than ever.”

His brother adjusted the blanket that was draped over his body. The tattered old thing that’s probably been in the Tracy family since the medieval period. It’s nothing overly special, it’s red and black and just as comfortable – and comforting – as it was when he was a child sick with a fever, chicken pox or anything. Grandma always did know when to bring it out.

John picked a little at the bandage that adorned his hand, pressing it down at the thought of Grandma seeing him mess with it. “Yeah, she does know best.”

Scott took an overexaggerated look around the room. John’s room. Has been since they were very young and still lived here on the family homestead. He was pretty certain that the only thing that’s changed in as many years, aside from them as boys growing into men, is their beds getting progressively bigger until now, when they only occasionally are here to sleep.

“I must say, I am surprised that Dad has left your room unlocked at all,” Scott gave a wry smirk, nodding at the open door.

John returned the grin. “What, you mean he hasn’t locked everyone else’s rooms yet? Put security cameras everywhere?”

“Funnily enough, no.”

“Surprising.”

gggrrroooooooowwl.

Their little conversation was interrupted by John’s stomach, painfully signalling that despite his beauty rest, he needed beauty food now too.

“So nurse Tracy. May I leave the confines of this bedroom for an hour? I should like to stretch my legs and have some food, if I may?”

The elder brother stood up, holding out a hand for him to help his brother up.

“Why of course Mr Tracy. Please, allow me to escort you to the living areas.”

John didn’t need to do much to know that he was home again, with his family, where he belonged.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #tag team secret santa #thunderbirds fanfiction

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tamagosandesu · 2 years ago

Text

Author’s notes: I’ve got another one here that’s heavily inspired by kingsman and some action movies I’ve been watching for the past dew weeks. Nothing special, but i really want to see a badass Sakura. Enjoy!

___________________________

If there was truly hope in the world, and that every person will emerge victorious after facing their individual adversity, then why is it that this never happens to him?

Hope. Such a word that he can't help but scoff at. There's nothing remotely good in the world nowadays that simply assuring a person would be enough to free them from the torment and vanity of living.

"Watch where you're going kid!" a random man shouts after he obviously walks in the busy streets of the town.

He only glares at the man and walks away unbothered, hands deep in his pockets and hood pulls his hood up.

"Kids nowadays…" he hears the man murmur which he ignored.

Kids. Good thing he's not one of those.

He might look young at first glance, but for Sasuke, he's not a kid anymore. He's at the age to be considered a legal adult and he's been living on his own for a few years now.

Sasuke believes that age does not determine your standing in society, whether you are allowed your free liberty or restricted still. He believes it's all about experience and the challenges you have faced that shapes you into an adult.

Liberty. Kids. Society. Hope.

What a joke.

__________________________

Sasuke visits a bakery one day out of pure, utter boredom of staying inside the house for days on end.

He's got nothing to do since he did not go to college, do not have a job, and lived alone for a better part of his life now.

At the age of 7, his mother and father were involved in a horrible accident that left only his and his brother Itachi alive to live with each other.

Itachi, being a very mature and experienced man, took on the duty to care for his brother like any other sibling should despite balancing his education and developing career at the early age of 16. His older brother was a very wise and intelligent man. His ideas were always an agreeable suggestion, and his logic was impressive. Often, his skills are seen as a great potential that makes people disregard his age and treat him as their equal, perhaps even better than them.

Sasuke have always admired his brother. He's always been partially envious but mostly proud of what his brother can do. Unlike Itachi, Sasuke is not as smart yet, he hopes, and people have always treated him as a child. He was still pretty small and not as tall as his older brother, innocent unlike the experienced as Itachi, and socially awkward as he is shy, while his brother can surely keep a conversation going.

Sasuke thinks, one day, he'll also be like his brother—smart, tall, handsome, matured, and a figure to admire.

Although, a sorrowful event happened when Sasuke was at the age of 16 and Itachi was 25. Coming home from school after graduation, Sasuke happily walked through the bustling streets of town in a good mood. He thinks this is the step closer he needed to be closer to his goal—become just like his brother. He made sure that he graduated top of the class and secured many awards in almost all subjects. He was also granted a scholarship and award to allow him to pursue any of his desired course at any institution that he wants.

Sasuke was very excited to show his medals and diploma to his brother. He twisted the doorknob and shouted, "I'm home!" in his usual tone, not making it obvious that he's actually bubbling with excitement on the inside. He removes his shoes and was about to place it neatly inside his brother's when he saw that Itachi's shoes were not there.

Sasuke confusedly went into the living room and saw that it was clean as usual. He went to the kitchen and saw leftovers neatly covered with plastic wrap situated on the table, dishes made and sink sparkly clean. It was as if Itachi was here not long ago.

Sasuke’s confusion was answered when he saw a letter on the fridge held by a magnet with Itachi's messy handwriting.

I'll be out for a few days because of something that the agency needed me to do. I have left some food on the table and the fridge is stocked so cook whatever you want.

Take care of yourself Sasuke while I'm gone okay?

-Itachi.

Sasuke was a little saddened to know that would not get the chance to show off his achievements to his brother anytime soon.

He sighed and decided to eat a little, take a bath, and oversleep until he wakes up voluntarily without an alarm the next morning.

Sasuke waited for his brother for a few days to arrive, diligently maintaining the cleanliness of the house and doing the usual things that Itachi always did for their home. He's afraid that his older brother might come home tired only to get disappointed because the trash wasn't emptied out or that the sink would still have dishes. And knowing Itachi and his clean freak nature, he would do the chores despite the desire to rest.

When the knock finally came at the door, Sasuke all but ran with a grin plastered on his face, not minding the fact that both him and Itachi have their own spare key and usually opens the door without knocking.

When Sasuke opened the door, he was surprised to see a silver-haired man wearing a stylish 3-piece suit in the hot weather with gloves.

Sasuke’s first thought was he might be one of those people who scams citizens with their new product.

Sasuke waits for the man to pull out any product that he'll probably introduce. Though, it never came. Instead, the man pulls out a letter from his pocket and asks, "You're Sasuke Uchiha, right?"

Sasuke thought about giving a fake name and denying but disregarded the thought as he nodded.

The man gave the letter to him, raised two fingers above his eyebrow, winked, and left as if nothing happened.

Sasuke had a split second to be dumbfounded when he looked at the retreating man, then to the letter that felt rather expensive and premium.

He's suddenly brought to reality when he sees the familiar handwriting of his brother. Sasuke quickly rushes inside and all, but rips open the letter, never mind that it felt expensive.

Dearest little brother,

Are you well? I'm sorry I haven't gone home for how many days now. Work has been hectic and hard to manage.

I'm writing this letter as an update for you. Don't worry, Sasuke, I'm still okay.

I just want to say goodbye, at the very least, because I might not come back.

I hope you are well and take care of yourself Sasuke. Always take care.

Love,

Itachi.

When Sasuke finished reading the letter, his eyebrows scrunched trying to decipher the meaning of the letter.

Is his brother trying to say something? What did he mean by wanting to say goodbye? Is he leaving?

Sasuke runs out of the house in hopes of finding the silver-haired man that gave him the letter.

He needed answers. He desperately needs answers.

Unfortunately, the man did not come back, and neither did his brother.

He waited for days, turned into weeks, into months for any hopes that his brother might still come back.

Itachi did not, but a letter did come that said Sasuke’s worst nightmare.

Itachi died.

Sasuke sighs at the memory. It's not a topic he wasn't able to accept, but he's still quite sensitive about it.

He'd rather not talk about the tragic topic of his family to anyone. From that point on, Sasuke did not continue school, lived alone, and sustained himself through his family's fortune that was left for no one but him.

People say he should get a job, or continue school since it's not too late. He's only 18 with potential to waste, he's tall, taller than Itachi even, he's handsome, and he's smart. Sasuke has become the man he's always wanted to be, but at the time of his life that nothing ever matters anymore.

He hates this. Hates thinking about his regrets and the sad moments of his life.

Thankfully, his order arrives, and the cashier calls his name to come and get them at the counter.

He stands up, takes his tray and sits at one of the many empty chairs inside the bakery. He's become quite fond of the place since there are only little to no people that visits it. Sasuke doesn't know why, but he's sure it's not the food since for all he knows, even though he dislikes sweets, the food the bakery serves was better than many.

He enjoys his coffee and bread, enjoying the quiet of the place and his solitude.

That was until the door sounded and the bell above rang to signal a customer. Sasuke faintly hears the welcome of the casier when he sees 6 people walking towards him with a mischievous smirk.

Great. Sasuke thinks when he sees the thugs at his former high school. These guys had beating up someone as their personal hobby. Sasuke doesn't know why he's become part of their list, but he thinks maybe it was because one of the girls had a crush on him which he rejected, and one of the guys liked that girl.

Sasuke sighs and asks, "What do you want?"

One of the guys that Sasuke thinks is Kenji—or was it Kentaro? Whatever—was laughing like a maniac as if anything is funny at all.

"Look at you, the almighty Uchiha Sasuke, used to be top of the class, but now a dropout. Look how the world goes," Kentaro—or Kenji?—said, putting his face way too close to Sasuke for his own liking. Sasuke ignores the immature thugs and peacefully sips his coffee, as if no one is around but merely flies.

"You think you're still so great don't 'ya? Ignoring us as if we're not worth yer time?" the man—Maybe it is Kenji—says.

Sasuke ignores, until the guy got full and slid his plate of muffin to the floor where the plate shattered and the muffin became too dirty to eat.

Sasuke finally stands, partially annoyed at their antics, mostly angry at the plate that he'll have to pay, and a hundred percent outraged at his muffin thrown to waste.

"Finally angered huh?" one of the thugs mocks as Kenji…what ever his name is, stands face to face with Sasuke, trying to reach his tall height.

"Why don't we take your shit outside?" Sasuke says which angered the men, but went out anyway.

Once outside, Sasuke all but spits out, "What the hell is your problem?"

The leader, which was Kenji/Kentaro, smiles and says, "Is it so bad to visit a former classmate?"

Sasuke scoffs, which, unsurprisingly, triggers the guys.

One of them finally threw a punch at Sasuke, in which he did not mind and only spat out some blood.

"Is that it?" Sasuke mocked.

Finally, the leader got triggered and started to beat him up, throwing punches here and there. Sasuke never punched back though.

"What's wrong Uchiha?! You afraid of punching someone and getting in trouble?"

Sasuke smirks and says, "No. But I'm afraid that if I punch you, you might end up in the hospital."

"You little shit!" one if the man shouts then punches him. That was the last straw until Sasuke blocked his punch then twisted his arm.

One of the men charges, but Sasuke ducked then sent a punch to his stomach. The leader tried to elbow his back while he was distracted, but Sasuke quickly evaded, which made the leader elbow one of his men instead. Sasuke then kicked Kenji on the head then punched right on the nose the second to the last man.

Sasuke stands one on one with the remaining guy, taking in a stance. The man charged with a swing, which Sasuke evaded with ease. He then tried to swing from left and right, but Sasuke easily blocked it and sent the man reeling backward with an uppercut. The guy pulls out a knife, however, then charges forward. This time, Sasuke evaded a little more cautiously and became conscious of the knife. The guy tries to stab Sasuke on the stomach, but Sasuke holds his arm and flips him onto his back. Sasuke then took the knife and threw it away.

The men fell unconscious and Sasuke was panting, but he walked back into the bakery, went to the cashier and paid for his food, including the plate that was broken.

The cashier did not seem to be bothered that Sasuke had his cheek swollen, his arm in a violet shade, and his lips cut and bleeding. She all but smiled and said, "Don't worry about the plate. It's not that expensive anyway."

Sasuke thanks the woman and remembers how charming her green eyes were.

__________________________

Sasuke tried to avoid going to the bakery now since he knew that those thugs might visit it again in search of him for their little revenge.

Instead, Sasuke goes to one of the less frequented pubs with only at least 3-5 drunk people regularly visiting it. He sits at the table far from the door and near the window. He does not buy anything, he only wants to get out of the house and go somewhere else.

Similar to the bakery, Sasuke was the only person in the pub, or at least the only one who's sane and awake. He enjoys the solitude and stares out the window.

He's in his peaceful mind enough that he doesn't notice a person sitting in front of him. Not until she spoke.

"Aren't you gonna order anything?" she speaks in genuine curiosity, looking at him with innocent eyes.

Sasuke has half a heart to turn his attention to the woman, until she said something that made the hair on his arms stand on edge.

"Huh. You're more quiet than Itachi-san is."

Sasuke all but snapped his head with wide-eyes to the woman, nevermind that she was the cashier at that bakery.

"You know my brother?" he asks cautiously.

"We're colleagues," she says with a look as if she's reminiscing.

"From where?" Sasuke asks.

"We work at the same company."

"Bullshit. Itachi works at an agency for private tutors, not a company."

"Huh. So that's what he's been telling people…"

At this point, Sasuke thinks he's one of those many girls that took a liking to his brother, and decided to drop the topic since she isn't worth it.

"You don't believe me, don't you?" she asks as she studies him.

"For all I know you might be one of my brother's admirers."

"Hm…" she thinks about the remark. "I do admire Itachi-san, but probably not in a way that you assume I do."

"I don't believe you."

"I know. Itachi-san told me enough about you that you're overly cautious."

"What do you know about me?"

"That you're Sasuke-kun, Itachi-san's cute little brother, he used to show me pictures of you when you were young, and that you're 9 years younger than him," she says with a smile as if she would like to pinch his cheek.

Sasuke narrows his eyes, and glares at the girl.

She seems unbothered by this and instead says, "I'm Sakura. Sakura Haruno. Itachi-san's colleague and friend."

Sasuke still does not believe her. She sighs.

"I knew you wouldn't believe me easily. But maybe this'll help."

Sasuke looks at her and raises an eyebrow, waiting for whatever she'll do that might convince him that she's legit.

"Dinosaur plushie."

Sasuke's shock was evident when she uttered those words. When Itachi and Sasuke were younger, they agreed to have a code if ever they get into a situation where they don't believe each other. They agreed that if they said their code, then that would mean they are the real deal. Out of all the words from the dictionary, Itachi chose the least likely to be a code and said that it should be 'dinosaur plushie'. Sasuke thought about how silly that was, but begrudgingly agreed because it had a small chance of getting copied.

Sasuke assesses the lady who was looking at her with hopeful eyes, trying to know if the code worked.

Sasuke sighed and nodded. "Alright, I believe you."

"You siblings really are something else…" she joked.

"So," Sasuke started. "Do you know what happe—"

"Well, well, if it isn't Sasuke Uchiha!"

Sasuke looked at the intruder and saw that it was Kenji—it's Kenji because he heard one of his men call him that—together with his goonies with bandages and the others were limping.

"For heaven's sake…" Sasuke murmured.

"Those are the guys that broke my plate, weren't they?" Sakura asked.

Just then Sasuke remembered that she was actually the cashier of his favorite bakery, then nodded.

"Why do they keep coming at you? Look at them picking a fight while limping," Sakura remarks.

"I don't know either."

Kenji finally arrives in front of Sasuke's table with a massively sick smile. He looks at Sasuke, then sees his lady acquaintance.

"Look at that! Sasuke's got himself a girlfriend!"

Sakura glares and makes a disgusted face at him.

"Oh, and a feisty one at that," Kenji says and puts his face close to Sakura. Sasuke thinks Kenji has a thing for invading personal space. "Tell me, what did he do to keep someone like you?"

Sasuke stood up and faced Kenji, tired and fed up with the guy's annoying antics.

"The fuck do you want?" Sasuke asks.

"Originally, I wanted to beat you up into a pulp until you beg for mercy, but now I kinda want your little girlfriend here," Kenji says. Sasuke almost wants to point out the fact that they're all still injured but thought better against it.

"Leave the lady alone," Sasuke said.

Instead of doing so, Kenji grabbed the girl to make a point and stuck his nose in her bubble-gum pink hair.

"She's pretty valuable for ya huh? I think I'd like to keep her for myself."

"Very ungentlemanly, are we?" Sasuke mocked in hopes that he'll let the poor lady go. "I thought you came here for me?"

Kenji seemed hit by this and released the woman. "Alright. Since I'm a gentleman," he pointed out, which made both Sakura and Sasuke internally scoff, "But if I win, then I get the lady."

"Well, that's if you win," Sakura retorted. A hand came in contact with her cheek as Kenji slapped her, impossibly short-tempered enough not to be gentle to a woman.

"Shut up you bitch!" he was about to hit Sakura when Sasuke blocked his hand.

"I thought we're gentlemen here?" Sasuke calmly asked in contrast to his tightening grip on Kenji's fist.

"Fine. But once we're done here, you're gonna pay for this bitch."

"Go," Sasuke tells Sakura. "We'll continue our conversation outside."

Sakura obeys and walks toward the doors. Sasuke and Kenji waited for the door to shut and looked at each other, Sasuke with a stoic expression and Kenji with an angry face.

Though, they were surprised to hear that instead of hearing the door open and shut, they heard the door lock as Sakura turns her back to them.

"You know what I hate the most about people like you?" Sakura asks as she locks the last door. She turns to Kenji's group and says, "You feel like you're so strong even though you come here limping after getting beaten up. Ever heard of defeat?"

This seemed to infuriate Kenji as, instead of charging at Sasuke, he ran towards Sakura, shouting with his fist out ready to hit. However, Sakura easily caught his fist before it hit her pretty face, then tightened her grip and started to slowly twist his arm.

"That's for grabbing me," she gently says. Then, with her free hand, Sakura lands a strong punch on his stomach that sent him reeling, "that's for sticking your face in my head," then she kicks his legs that made Kenji kneel, "that's for calling me a bitch," she says before kicking his face, sending a few teeth flying away.

Kenji lies unconscious on the ground, eyes rolled to the back of his head and his unruly teeth no longer complete.

"Ang that's for slapping me you knucklehead."

Sasuke and the other men stood there shocked, before one of them snapped forward ready to take revenge on Sakura for beating up their boss. Sasuke was about to stop the man when he saw Sakura shaking her head. Sasuke did as he's told and stood by to watch.

Before the man could reach Sakura, she jumped then kicked the man right on the face. The other guys moved and surrounded her, but none of them were able to even get close to her by a meter.

One particularly harsh stunt she did was when she held the head of the guy that got his nose broken by Sasuke and Sakura all but slammed his face into her knee.

Sasuke cringed at how painful that might be.

After almost 5 minutes of kicking, punching, and sounds of bones almost cracking ang actually cracked, Sakura stood by with a slight uneven breath, as if she just did 10 jumping jacks, with barely a scratch while the guys lay unconscious and crying on the floor.

Sakura went to the washing area and washed her hands, before wiping it with a handkerchief then going back to Sasuke.

"Now," she starts, slightly out of breath, "Where were we?"

Sasuke could only stare at her, dumbfounded.

"I hope those guys wake up in a hospital," she murmurs to herself as she sprays alcohol on her palm, "should I call an ambulance?" She continues her self-conversation as she fixes her face in front of the window.

"Who are you?" Sasuke finally asks, somehow curious but mostly concerned for his own safety.

"I told you, I'm Sakura."

"And you're the cashier from that bakery?"

"Yup."

"And you work there full-time?"

"I own that bakery."

"And you just beat those guys up?"

"Okay, what's wrong with you?" Sakura asked, a little freaked out at Sasuke.

Sasuke looks at her. "Who are you?"

Sakura thinks about it then sighs. "If you follow me, I'll tell you."

Sasuke thinks about it, then nods. Then he says, "And if I follow you, will you tell me what happened to my brother too?"

Sakura acknowledges this and nods. "Let's go then, shall we?"

#anime #anime fanfic #naruto #naruto fanfiction #naruto au #Sasuke Uchiha #Sakura Haruno #sasusaku #sasusaku fanfiction #inspired by kungsman idk #me and my messy writings

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