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Valentine Knight

"I have half the world running from me, and the other half desperately hunting me. I am the closest thing to God mankind has ever encountered. Do not make an enemy of me."

0 · 1,210 views · located in Unknown (world-wide, but mostly USA)

a character in “Hunt, Capture, and Kill”, as played by Zero Reaper

Description

Valentine Knight, also known as 'The Sword of Damocles'

Image


Nickname(s): Known to the greater public as the Sword of Damocles; has dozens of false identities he uses for airports and such, however.
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Role: 'Wild Card'


Appearance


Image


Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Black
Height: 6'4"; and well-built at that, although not overly heavily.
Clothing: Usually wears a long leather duster, with a rather high collar (refer to picture); the coat is actually inter-weaved with 'Dragon Skin' ceramic plates, rendering it almost bulletproof to anything up to standard-size rifle rounds. Underneath this, he usually wears heavy-duty ceramic combat armour, which covers nearly his whole body, and underneath that, light cotton pants and a dress shirt (for breathability) or a warm jumper (if he's expecting cold weather). He will typically wear a balaclava that covers his face up to the bridge of his nose, and matte-black anti-flash sunglasses, as well as leather combat gloves and 'jump-boots'. Jump boots are usually seen used by the Russian Spetsnaz, and combine the best aspects of a running shoe and a combat boot; the soles are wrapped in layers of tough cloth, rendering it nearly silent, and it is done up with many clasps and buckles; it is light enough to be run in, but solid and heavy enough to shatter a man's leg or ribcage with a solid kick.
Weapon(s): Switches regularly depending on what he's doing, but always utilises military-grade equipment, and expresses a preference for assassination using anti-materiel weaponry (typically in .50 BMG, 14.5mm or 20mm). He also notably always carries a twelve-inch combat knife, wickedly curved, with a dip in one side of the blade, and his signature weapon for close quarters use is a .500-calibre Smith and Wesson revolver. Lastly, he is also an astoundingly skilled hand-to-hand combatant, utilising the Russian 'Systema' style, and rumour has it that he was once trained in it by the infamous 'Spetsnaz' special forces unit.
Other: Is incredibly experienced in the art of explosives, responsible for several major terrorist attacks in the last few years; he is also well-trained in the areas of deception, manufacturing of false identities and manipulation of those around him. Do NOT put him at the wheel of a vehicle, however, unless you wish for its occupants to suffer the same fate as his enemies.


Personality


A complex, if not divided man, Valentine has spent years fighting and killing, and knows almost nothing but the horrors of war. It is not known when he started what he is now doing, or how, or why; it is unclear when his pattern of murders, assassinations and terrorist attacks began, but it is clear that it has been going for at least eight years, and possibly well longer. He has an incredibly strong sense of justice and what is right, his morals made clear to the world for a long time; he has, in an odd statement sent to news agencies around the world, stated that 'There is nothing inherently wrong with evil, for it can be stopped by the law - and nothing inherently wrong with power, for those with power are necessary to the running of our world. But those who combine the two, those who the law will not stop, those are who I hunt, and they are who I will strike down like the beasts they are.' He has almost no moral qualms in the pursuit of his goal, and once killed four hundred civilians in a bomb attack to wipe out a corrupt CEO who had been bribing the government to continue business; indeed, Valentine seems to apply perhaps a 'profit/loss' system to this, believing that if the number of lives saved or greatly improved exceeds the number of innocent lives taken, he is still righteous. In the very, very few interviews he has ever given, mostly to independent journalists at undisclosed locations, he almost gives hints at being psychologically damaged, likely a consequence of almost a decade of warfare, as well as perhaps the beginnings of his sanity cracking. He occasionally refers to 'others', believed to be once companions of his; in his early days, he was reported to be operating with the assistance of other individuals, although for at least five years, he has operated exclusively independently. Half the world seems to view him as an insane madman, and the other half views him as a righteous hero - but just who he believes he is, remains to be seen...


Hobbies: Does enjoy writing poetry, philosophy and short stories in what little free time he has, although this is understandably usually dark and twisted. Other than that, he has effectively no time to himself.
Favorite Color: Usually seen wearing steel grey or black; he likes to consider himself above such personal preference, however.
Fears: He does not fear death, and to some extent, treats it as a relief; what he fears is dying for nothing, as it would mean that his great quest for righteousness and absolution had ended for nothing. Deep down, he also fears falling in love; it has happened before, and he knows that, at this stage, it would inevitably mean the death of his loved one.
Weaknesses: His great ruthlessness turns many against him, as his 'profit/loss' system of morality and seeming lack of empathy makes him look just as evil, if not more so, than those he kills - and, moreover, this is quite possibly accurate. He is also incredibly infamous, his steel-grey armour and black duster the personification of death in the eyes of many; his appearance in a location is sure to have the police of at least half a dozen nations crawling over it before long.

History: Almost nothing is known of the Sword of Damocles; indeed, nobody but his closest associates even knows his true name. What is known, and extremely publicized, is his service record; he has, to date, destabilised the governments of three third-world nations, brought down several multinational corporations, assassinated major political figures in America, Japan, China and Britain, and possesses a kill count believed to stand at over two thousand individuals, approximately half of which consists of civilians or medical professionals caught in the crossfire or assigned as 'collateral damage'. It is still unclear whether all this is the actions of a single individual, or multiple individuals operating under the same name and using the same techniques; but what is clear is his intentions, and the change his actions have brought...


Excerpt




Two thousand, six hundred and thirty-eight.

That was how many people dead at his hands, Valentine mused, as he sat in the back of the car. The lights of the city rushed past, a dark blur, like stars in an empty sky, but far too numerous; they were glaring, and it seemed cold, hostile, aggressive. But he did not dwell on this; he had to think, had to focus.

Had to kill.

His hands moved on instinct, with a skill born of years of practice. He clicked a magazine into his rifle, pulled back softly on the bolt, then released it, hearing the satisfying, metallic 'thunk' of a bullet being chambered. It was a .50 BMG round, 'Raufoss'-model, a hybrid armour-piercing incendiary type. He'd seen one literally rip a man limb from limb with the force of an impact, and he knew full well that it could tear through a metre of concrete without changing course and while maintaining enough force to kill. He knew this round well; he had fired hundreds like it in his lifetime. But today, only one more addition would be made. It would only take one shot.

He was not in the business of missing.

He stepped out of the car, nodding to the driver; the car left him immediately. The driver was unimportant. The driver had been paid; the driver knew nothing except where to drop him off. From there, he walked.

First things first, he checked his gear. His armour was all in place, securely affixed; it felt heavy, but not too heavy. His coat was the same; it barely obstructed his movement, the latticework of plates completely bulletproof. His weapons were clean and ready to go; his knife was sheathed across his chest, his revolver in a holster upon his abdomen. His backup 9mm Glock was strapped to his right ankle. He had four magazines of .50 BMG rounds across his chest; always better to be prepared. He'd made the mistake of not being prepared too many times, lost too much to that mistake, to come unprepared. One shot was what he wanted. He did not always get what he wanted.

He jogged through a side-street, slinked through the shadows of a busy street, and then cut through another alleyway to a construction site. In a few weeks' time, it would become a towering high-rise apartment building, filled with thousands of smiling families. But for the moment, it was completely empty. For the moment, he would be alone, and that was what he needed.

He walked up its stairs with trepidation; his boots made no sound, the Barrett M107 in his hands only clinking slightly when he accidentally bumped it against a hanging chain. He froze at the noise, snapping up the huge weapon and scanning around; but he saw nothing, and realised what had happened. So he continued, until he reached its twelfth floor, just as he'd planned.

He lay down on his stomach, checking his watch. He was two minutes early. For most, that would be a good thing; it would give them time to set up, to prepare, to rest. Not so for him. Every second he lay still, the CIA of America, the DGSE of France, the GRU of Russia, and a dozen other ruthless intelligence organisations came closer to finding him, to killing him. He would not, could not, allow that to happen.

He checked his weapon, flicking off the safety with a soft 'click' that echoed in the empty space. The wall of this section of the building was not yet in place; he had a clear view out to the hotel on the other side of the road to the apartment building. A table lay set, laden with dozens of expensive dishes; it was unattended, for the moment. In a few minutes, his target would enter, and sit at the thirty-fourth seat. He would stand for a toast to the hotel owner's daughter, who was soon to be married; this toast would occur between thirty seconds and a minute after his target's entrance. His target's heart was his target; he needed a pacemaker, and a shot anywhere near it would shut down the pacemaker on account of electrostatic shock, driving the heart into fibrillation and ensuring no chance of survival. With a direct hit to center mass, the target would be dead in roughly three and a half seconds; with a hit anywhere else, the target would be dead within fourteen. Every detail here was meticulously planned, as always. There was no margin for error.

The target entered, right on schedule. Valentine exhaled softly, his finger curling around the trigger of his rifle; its bipod was unfolded, and it was balanced perfectly. He caught the target in his scope's crosshairs, leveling it at center mass; he knew the ideal time to take the shot, but he would take it immediately if deviations to the course occurred. As he lay there, weapon in his hands, cold metal against his leather gloves, his mind wandered, to those he'd lost over the ten years he'd fought for.

Leo; the closest thing he'd ever had to a brother, dead to save him, making a last stand so that he could escape.

Nina; his ally from the very beginning, he'd been forced to execute her, to put a bullet through her head, after she'd had a change of heart.

Monica; his oldest friend, abandoned him in fear, hating him now, helping the world's governments to hunt him down, her innocence of heart taken by those he'd forced her to kill in his name.

Stephanie. His heart caught at the thought of her name. Of that pale skin, of those beautiful, youthful features, of the warmth of her lips and the comfort of her skin. Of her light, soft laugh, more a girlish giggle than anything. Of her face soaked in blood as she cut a man's heart out to save his life. Of the look of horror upon her face as she realised what she'd done. Of the look of pleading at him to save her in her last moments.

The look of pure, unrelenting terror on her face as she died.

He closed his eyes, and when he re-opened them, all such thoughts were banished from his mind, replaced with a quiet emptiness. He saw his target stand, saw him raise his glass in a toast. He saw the smile on the man's face. A stark contrast with all those that man had killed, Valentine mused icily.

He pulled the trigger.

Two thousand, six hundred and thirty-nine.

So begins...

Valentine Knight's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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A sharp gunshot cut through the shouting in the room, everything going silent instantaneously. A man clad in a military uniform stood wide-eyed, blood splattered over him. Josh, the man he had been fighting with, was slumped upon the ground, blood leaking out of a neat hole in his skull and across the floor. And, in the doorway to the room, stood a man clad neatly in a suit, a smoking M1911 semi-automatic pistol in his hand. Around him stood five tall, imposing figures, clad in gunmetal ceramic combat armour and wearing grey dusters. Some men in the room reached for their sidearms before they realised that the off-grey of the coats was different from the black of their target's - and that there were five of them.

Suddenly, everyone in the room, save for the man who was splattered with the blood of his now-dead opponent, snapped a crisp salute to the suited man, faces a mixture of awe and pure, unbridled fear. The suited man stepped forward, observing the blood-spattered man through the sights of his handgun.

"Colonel Smith," he said, voice perfectly calm and even. "I see that you have entered an altercation. Do we tolerate altercations in Blacklight, Colonel?"

"N-n-n-no," the blood-splattered man replied, stuttering, voice subdued like that of a child being told off. "We don't."

"Precisely," the suited man said, lowering his weapon. "I will say nothing more of it, but do not let me see this happen again or the bullet shall be in your head, not your opponent's."

Colonel Smith seemed to regain a tiny bit of confidence, in the pause, and said, voice slightly challenging, "You can't do that, Drake. We're the same rank. You have no authority to summarily execute me."

"No, I do not," the suited man replied. "But these men beside me - if you could call them 'men' at all -" he said, with a sweeping motion of the hand, "Do not much care for rank. As far as they are concerned, everyone looks the same down the sight of a gun. And that is all they care about." Smith said nothing, just sat there looking terrified, so Drake continued, "That's enough of that, though. Now, I see that the girl is absent. Have you deployed her already?"

Smith shrugged. "She's been pumped full of combat drugs and fitted with a shock collar. The less time the Sword is alive, the better."

Drake sighed, shaking his head. "I do not like your little freak, Smith. Deploying that failed experiment is only going to create more problems than it will solve. She is no soldier - and while you may play on the Sword's sense of justice, I have seen him set off explosive devices with children in the blast radius. It will not faze him for long. And even if it did, she is too mentally unstable to be able to reliably kill him."

"Oh, really?" Smith inquired, voice slightly mocking. "And your pet monsters are any better? Did it ever occur to you, Drake, that creating more of what we're fighting might be a slight problem?"

Drake shook his head. "The Mass Production models are indoctrinated to fight for us under any and all circumstances. The Sword is not human, if only in mind. It takes inhuman beasts to kill him; it takes something that will cancel him out. Unit One is already in the field on a trial. If the Sword survives this, we will simply deploy all six. There is no issue here."

Smith laughed, a high, arrogant sound; but it faded when he glanced around, and realised that the imposing figures were all simply staring at him with blank eyes. "We'll see, I suppose. Now, I have to get to the Ops Room. Let's see how this goes."

Drake nodded. "Indeed. I myself want to see Unit One in the field. This should be interesting..."

------

Valentine stood and began running, shutting the whole world out. He had no idea why he was so scared; he shouldn't have been, after all. But looking in a metaphorical mirror felt just like looking into the depths of hell. It was an unnerving knowledge, that.

He counted down how long it would take for a trained human to raise and fire a weapon, with the intention of hitting the deck just before it fired; the thing behind him, however, was far quicker than he'd expected, and when he was only halfway through the countdown, he felt a bullet slam into his back. His spine cracked horribly as the ceramic plate was pushed into him, but it wasn't terribly painful, so he kept moving. He couldn't afford to stop now. But, for some reason, he got the feeling that that bullet had been a warning shot. So, spinning around without stopping his movement, he drew his revolver, shoved Audra behind him, and fired three shots at his enemy. He didn't stop to look at whether his opponent was staggered or not, just span back around and kept running.

After a few seconds, he rounded a corner; as he did so, another bullet slammed into his shoulder, causing him to spin and topple to the ground. He stood back up a moment later, and began walking backwards, leveling his automatic at the corner; whatever the hell that thing was, a full magazine of .30-06 would slow it down at least a bit. "Start up a car," he ordered Audra, while checking his shoulder; no blood was on the ground, so it must have been shooting extreme high-calibre pistol rounds to have that sort of impact. Probably from a revolver of some sort, based on the rate of fire. Just like he was using...

"We need to get away from the thing as fast as we can. It just put two pistol bullets in me from nearly a hundred metres, and I genuinely don't know if we can kill it. And if you can't kill it... well, you run the fuck away from it."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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#, as written by Haas33
Blue Jay flapped along, following the sounds of gunshot. She had healed her leg a little more, but it still hurt a lot. How could she kill Valentine? He had saved her life on more than one occasion. She couldn't kill him...but what they do to her if she didn't? She shuddered at the thought. "Remember your target," a fuzzy voice said. Blu Jay assumed it was something that they had implanted in her...a transmitter or something. "Oh, and there will be, uh, two Swords of Damocles. The one with the red wristband is not your target." it said again. Two Valentines? What had they done? "To make sure that the one not your target doesn't shoot at you, go up to him and say 'FF negative target Subject 33'" it said again. Wow, this was pretty serious.

How could they make another Valentine? Cloning or something? Blue Jay frowned, then spotted the shapes below her. Her sharp eyes picked out the one with the red wristband, evidentially shooting at Valentine. She landed next to it, and immediately it turned to face her. "FF negative target Subject 33" she said hurriedly, before Red Valentine shot at her. "I'm on your side," she said, holding her hands up in the universal surrender motion. "Attack from the air." He instructed her. Reluctantly, she turned to face the original Valentine. "Take this," he said, shoving a small gun into her hands. She had no clue what kind it was, but she nodded solemnly.

It was really odd, Valentine telling her to kill Valentine. She stood still for a moment, and a shock came to her collar. Immediately, she jumped forward, spreading her wings wide and zooming ahead. She leveled her gun. She couldn't do it. He was right there. She could fly faster than he could run. If she wanted to, she could kill him right now. "Valentine! They want me to kill you! If I don't do something they shock me with this..." she shouted, but was cut short as searing pain ripped through her. She broke her wing beat pattern and stumbled to the ground. Pain ripped through her and she screamed out in pain. "Run Valentine!" She said, but was met with another shock. Tears welled up in her eyes and she screamed louder, curling up in a ball. When the pain stopped, she just continued. "Get out of the country, something. Go! Run!" She said, before pain ripped through her again. Through tears, she managed to say "run" She had never felt so much pain before. But she couldn't kill Valentine...She couldn't.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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((I am SO sorry for not posting!!!!! RPG wouldn't let me log on for ages!!!!))

Valentine turned to Audra, now irritated. She might have been a professional assassin, and a damned good one at that, but this was open warfare now. She was in no way equipped for dealing with someone who could and would level half a city block just to get to his target. And now she was just carrying a freaking .22! It'd be about as effective as a BB Gun against their enemy's armour. But he shut out any feelings of anger or irritation he might have had towards her. He could leave her later; for the minute, his priority was either killing Other Valentine or running like hell. He forced his mind into the dark space that it occupied when it seemed that his death was imminent - a space Vlad had caused him to develop as a part of his training. A place devoid of any emotion; the mindscape of a murderer.

"Get in the car," he stated, voice no longer shouting, but perfectly calm and even, lacking any kind of feeling. His fists clenched around his massive automatic rifle's grip, finger curling around the trigger. But the figure that emerged from the corner was about half as large as his designated target.

He realised with shock and terror that it was Blue Jay. And she was saying that she was there to kill him. It took him a few costly seconds to work out just what she was stating - that she'd been turned. That she worked for Blacklight now. For the enemy. For Them - the dehumanised term he used to refer to people he didn't like to think about killing. She was one of Them. That made her a target. Under other circumstances, he would have panicked, wondered what he should do. As it was, his mind skipped the 'decision' stage and moved straight into 'action'.

"I'm going to Hell for this..." he muttered, walking over to where she stood, half bent-over on the pavement, clearly in massive pain. She must have been equipped with a shock collar. Without pause, he swung the back end of his massive rifle into her gut, slamming it into her as hard as he could, throwing her several metres backwards with the impact.

But before he could turn and run, he heard footsteps to his right, soft - too soft for any normal person. The exact sound his Spetsnaz-issue boots made against concrete. He managed to bring up his rifle, using it as a block as Other Valentine's bowie knife, identical to his save for a carbon-black blade instead of the gleaming steel of his own, slammed into the weapon. An instant's delay and the knife would have gone into his neck. He threw the rifle away; its barrel had been twisted by the impact, and it was now useless. Without a second's pause, he whipped out his own knife in his left hand and his huge .500 Smith & Wesson revolver in his right, blocking his opponent's second strike with his gun's barrel and swiping; he aimed a tiny bit too low, however, and his blade bounced off his opponent's lower arm plate instead of cutting through the elbow gap. He threw up his own handgun as his enemy drew his, sending a gunshot high, and punching his opponent's face mask with the knuckles of his knife hand, cracking the plastic with the force. He managed to duck an instant later, sending his opponent's .500-calibre round high; he could practically feel the hot lead grazing his hair. This was a high-stakes game - one wrong move on the part of either of them, and they were as good as dead. And to make matters more complicated, both sides had a wild card...

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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#, as written by Haas33
Blue Jay couldn't feel the pain anymore. She couldn't hear her own thoughts, let alone the thoughts of those around her. Her brain was going haywire, her vision blurring, and each move she made was jumpy and almost not connected to her brain. She was an electrified, hot wired, crazy mutant bird kid supposed to kill one Valentine, who was probably on the verge of insanity. Worst of all, she felt like her ribs were cracked, maybe from being hit, or hit into something really hard, and she didn't know why. THat was how messed up her brain was right now. She didn't know if she was being electrified, or if they had just stopped electrocuting her. Either way, you could tell she wasn't thinking straight. In front of her, she thought she was seeing double, but it was really just the two Valentines duking it out.

Blue Jay tried to get up, but moving seemed impossible. The only thing that seemed to be working was her wings, and she was sensible enough to flap them open, managing to whack them off the concrete wall she was slouched against in the process. Her eyes were trying to focus on the fight in front of her. She needed to do something...but what? She caught sight of a flash of red and knew which one was the right Valentine. Which one indeed. Kill the real Valentine and get help, possibly healed, maybe even protection. Or kill the fake Valentine, save the guy who had saved her, possibly get seriously hurt in the process, still be on the run, and still be out of place in this world. Blue Jay sighed. Her mind was made. Sort of...it's really hard to know if your mind is made when it is all a jumble from being electrocuted.

Blue Jay knew if she got involves in the fight, she would get hurt, no question. But she already was hurt wasn't she? Suddenly, thoughts screamed out at her. Both Valentines seemed to be thinking about gaps in the armor they were wearing. How could she hear thoughts when her brain was like scrambled eggs? How would she know? her brain was scrambled eggs! Blue Jay looked around for something sharp, and saw a long sword peeking out of a guitar case (one of Audra's katanas) and with out thinking, she managed to half fly, half crawl over to it and pick up the sword. Flapping harder, she pulled up into the air, her legs limp, her left hand holding her stomach, and her right hand holding the knife. Her eyes were set on the one she wanted to kill, and right now, his back was exposed, a gap in the armor slightly open. However, like any normal fight, he moved, and her chance was lost, only for another one to arise.

Her wings worked fast and clumsily to propel her forward, the sharp blade held tightly. She dove forward, and the Valentine's were to involved in the fight to even attempt to block her, or notice her even. They were to worried not to get knifed in the skull or shot in the head. Blue Jay tucked her wings in, angled downward, and dove. Her knife was held firmly in front of her, and her eyes were set on the Valentine she wanted to kill. Her brain didn't even recognize she had hit her target until his blood dripped down her fingers. She had hit him all right. Right in the neck, in between two plates of armor. The Valentine was frozen, mostly out of shock, but also out of pain. Blue Jay saw the knife on the other side, and she almost threw up. She didn't know if he was dead, nor did she care. He had tried to kill Valentine.

The real Valentine.

Blue Jay looked up at the real Valentine, no knife sticking through his neck like the very unfortunate one at her feet, mouth somewhat agape. Blue Jay dropped to her knees, then said two simple words. "I'm sorry," before loosing consciousness. From what? Heck if she knows. Blood loss? Electrocution? Her massive injuries? Exhaustion?

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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Valentine was shocked to see Blue Jay moving again; by all rights, she should be well and truly out for the count by now. He knew that, having taken that kind of punishment, he'd probably be. And yet she was still moving, still trying to fight - it was nigh-impossible, nigh-inconceivable, for her to be in commission; his awe at her ability overcame any thoughts of whether she could be a threat to him or not.

Unfortunately, this tiny break in his concentration was all it took for the other Valentine to slip a knife in between his ribs.

He looked down, stunned. The knife had gone into the tiny gap between his chestplate and his abdomen plating; the gap was less than a quarter of a centimetre wide. It was an incredibly precise shot - the exact same one Valentine had used ten years ago against the Legionnaire to win that fateful fight, the fight where he'd secured his right as mankind's sole dark god, the only one permitted to pass judgement upon mortals. He'd forgotten about that gap; he'd never had cause to use it since then, never fought an enemy this skilled since he'd defeated the Legionnaire. And that single mistake had killed him.

He stepped backwards, his mind snapping back into combat mode. He dropped his knife and grabbed his opponent's now-free arm, wrenching it around, the wrist snapping; but even now, he could feel his blood dripping out onto the ground, his life seeping out of him drop-by-drop. He managed to bring up his .500 S&W, but it was knocked aside before he could pull the trigger. He was too unfocused, and before he could react, a high-calibre round from his opponent's revolver - identical to his, save for a matte black composite construction instead of his own weapon's polished silver frame - slammed into his chest armour at high velocity, staggering him backwards a few feet. He blinked a few times, vision blurry, until his eyes opened once more to be staring down the barrel of the revolver.

But the end never came.

The other Valentine sunk to its knees, light flashing for a second off its sunglasses, as though the lights in its eyes going out, even though Valentine knew that it wasn't quite dead yet. Blood covered its armour, leaking down its neck and through its off-grey coat. Valentine saw the katana in its neck, and then Blue Jay curled up in a foetal position - the only person in position to have put a knife through it. He saw it now. When he'd met her, he'd thought it inconceivable and stupid that anyone could have tried to use her as a supersoldier; she was just a scared, harmless kid. But now he saw the look in her eyes as they faded shut; the look of a murderer, the look of someone who'd killed and knew it. The cold look of a soldier; the look he'd seen in a thousand men's eyes over the years, in Africa and Japan and Afghanistan and Belarus and even here in America when he fought Blacklight. A thousand murderers - all of whom, felled by his hand.

But not her.

He watched the other Valentine collapse to the ground, and he leveled his revolver, thumbing back the hammer, preparing to fire it and end his opponent's life once and for all. He could get to the bottom of this mystery later; the mystery of why there were soldiers just like him, trained and armed exactly as he was. For now, he needed to terminate this opponent.

But then his opponent's glasses rolled off, cracking against the pavement as his head hit the ground, and Valentine realised a truly horrible truth as he stared into his own eyes - cold, furious, filled with a lust for blood.

This soldier, and the inevitable many like him, weren't just trained, armed and deployed exactly like him.

They were him.

He was shocked out of this mindset by a burst of gunfire flying over his head, and he ducked slightly, his opponent forgotten. At the other end of the long street, he saw a squad of ordinary Blacklight troops firing assault rifles at him in short, controlled bursts - the fire of trained professionals. He felt a few shots impact his armour, but they didn't penetrate, and so he turned, firing a single, booming shot downrange with his revolver; one of the men fell. He was good with most guns, but when it came to his revolver, he was a natural, able to wield it with perfect accuracy and ease. He could hit a ten-cent coin from fifty paces with his Smith & Wesson; human-sized targets weren't exactly a problem.

He grabbed Audra by the forearm, hauling her into the car and throwing her into the driver's seat; stepping away from the car, he grabbed his bag of guns in one hand and Blue Jay in the other, stuffing them both into the backseat before diving into the passenger's seat, a burst of fire missing him by millimeters.

"Drive," he commanded. "No time to wait."

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Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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The soldiers kept firing short controlled bursts, and their leader waved his hand forward - an indication to pursue - but before they could begin running, they were halted by a calm, even voice in their earpieces.

"Secure Unit One. Let them go."

After a moment's confusion, they all reported affirmatives in their respective languages and ran forward, kneeling beside the fallen soldier, pulling the katana from its neck and bandaging it. The blade had managed to slip between his spinal column and his throat; it had cut an artery and was bleeding heavy, but for now, the monstrosity was alive.

------

Valentine staggered into the huge room, his blood dripping down, staining the white tiles. The pain was beginning to mount; with the adrenaline fading, it hit him that he really had been stabbed. In his flesh, not his armour. It was a strange feeling; he hadn't been properly wounded in close to a year. Yet there he stood, bleeding out over the floor.

He managed to walk over to one of the beds, pulling some medical supplies from it before collapsing on the bed in a sitting position. He gritted his teeth against the pain as he removed his coat, the heavy garment, interlaid with small armour inserts, clinking onto the ground; he saw quite a few holes in it, caused by high-calibre bullets that had only been stopped by his heavier plate armour. Glancing down, he stared at the knife jammed into him; it was identical to his own in every way, and he actually checked the sheath on his chest that his own was still there. He closed his eyes, wrapping blood-soaked gloved hands around it; he knew full well that this was going to hurt. Then, with no small degree of force, he ripped it out of himself, letting out a broken grunt of pain as he did so. He dropped the knife, his hand plunging back onto the mattress to support himself; his breathing was erratic, violent, due to the pain. He'd been shot many times, stabbed many times, but this was different - his knives were specifically designed with tiny serration in it, as to cause maximum pain upon cutting, to tear open the wound and make it hard to heal. He had to be pragmatic; but now, that pragmatism was biting him in the back.

After a long, fuzzy pause, he realised that he was bleeding out a lot quicker with the knife removed, and thusly, he stood, grunting again at the pain caused by tensing his muscles. He quickly stripped off his plate armour, letting the heavy ceramic plates bang to the ground, before removing his shirt; he was heavily-muscled, courtesy of a decade of combat, but unfortunately, that here equated to a great deal of blood coursing through the wounded area. Blood was splayed over his chest, having been spread around by the movement of his shirt, and a veritable torrent of it was going down his stomach. His legs shook and he fell to one knee, hunched over; he didn't have much time.

He grabbed a bandage and wrapped the wound, placing pressure on it to stem the bleeding. After he'd wrapped it enough and the bleeding had mostly stopped, he lay back on the now blood-soaked bed, exhaling quietly and closing his eyes, letting his muscles rest for a minute. After he felt slightly better, he sat back up and injected himself with a high-powered painkiller taken from a pouch on his armour. Then, realising that he was A), in the presence of a woman, and B), without a shirt, his face turned slightly red and he turned around, grabbing a T-shirt from the compartment and pulling it over his head; it was slightly small for him, but it fit.

After grabbing something from the pocket of his ripped shirt, he walked over to Audra, rather gingerly on account of the painkillers not having taken effect yet. The short walk seemed to exhaust him, and when he reached her, he staggered back against the kitchen bench, sighing. He then opened his hand and passed what he'd taken to her; it was a completely black credit card, gleaming slightly in the white light.

"There's a nine-figure sum on there," he stated. "Take two million. It should easily cover anything you lost out there, and then some." After a long pause of thinking about his next words, he continued, "I don't like it, but you saved my life out there, and I won't soon forget it. The fact that you saved me makes you a friend, whether I like it or not."

((Not bad, not bad. That post was a solid effort, even by my standards :) Also, may I enquire as to what's on the video tapes?))

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Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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#, as written by Haas33
((Very very sorry for my long absence. I thought I had informed you that I would be away from wifi for a week. I had not...but I will post now!))

Blurry images stung across Blue Jays vision. Her memory was seriously fuzzy and she felt like an elephant was sitting on her chest. Her hands were caked in blood, her left leg was practically useless, and the only thing seemingly functional was her wings laying gently out from her sides. Her vision finally came into focus, and at the back of her mind, she heard familiar voices. She could see white ceiling tiles above her, and noticed she was on a bed, also white. Now, blue Jay had never had good memories in white rooms. Why? the facility she had been tortured in was white. White=torture. That combined with fuzzy memory and mystery blood made her instinctively jump up, ready for takeoff. However, all she was met with was searing pain coming from her ribs. Collapsing from pain, she fell back onto the bed, clutching her ribcage.

Still around her neck was a metal collar, likely with a tracking device in it, but clearly it had short circuited or something, maybe got out of range, because she wasn't trembling on the ground with volts of electricity coursing through her. Though she did truly feel horrible, in fact, worse than she was stumbling around going loopy from electrocution. She felt completely sore, and very very hungry. Her entire body hurt, but she felt like she needed to asses the most important injuries. She applied her 'magic spit' to her leg, which set correctly and fixed the broken bone. A little bit of muscle grew back over her leg, but she knew her injuries would take some time to heal. However, no matter how hard she tried, she could not heal her ribs. The problem was she had to be able to touch her 'magic spit' to the injury. Her leg was torn open so it was possible for her to fix it, but her ribs were just broken. Since she had already lost so much blood and needed food ASAP, tearing a hole in her chest would be catastrophic.

"Vavaltiene....." she mumbled, trying to say Valentine, but the word coming out horribly through her bloody mouth. "Valentine," she managed to say meekly, picking her head up to look around for Valentine. Memories sort of drifted back to her: the fight, the two Valentines, killing the fake one, passing out. Details were nothing, but she got a fuzzy perspective of what happened. She had to be sure that he had made it. Plus, she really needed food, something done with her ribs, and her collar thing to come off, but right now, she had to make sure he was alive. A thought struck Blue Jay. Why did she care so much about him? She had never had good memories with adults, let alone people with guns. he seemed rather cold and heartless, but BLue Jay knew why.

He was the closest thing to a family she had ever had.

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Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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Valentine turned as he heard Blue Jay's moan, looking down at her prone, broken form, blood seeping out into the sheets. She was badly injured, that was for sure; he wasn't entirely clear on whether she'd make it or not. But damned if he was going to lose another person.

He knelt down beside her, grabbing his medkit from where his combat gear lay. "I'm here," he whispered, smoothing a hand over her forehead comfortingly. "Try to relax." He grabbed out a morphine autoinjector; with quick, practiced hands, he popped the lid and slid the needle into her side, letting the drug fill her system and dull her pain. He saw a small amount of saliva on her leg, and was about to wipe it away when he saw the wound close over because of it. It must have been some kind of stem cell-based cellular reproduction accelerator. He'd heard of drugs with similar effect in use by the most elite elements of Spetsnaz, but the sheer amount of genetic engineering that would be required to cause a human to produce it naturally... it was frankly incredible.

He realised a possible solution. Her worst injury was her cracked ribs, and they were pressing in on her lungs, making breathing difficult. She'd die within an hour if he didn't fix it; he'd seen similar injuries on soldiers in Belarus when he was near ground zero of a suicide bomber, and they'd died screaming in agony. If he didn't get her to someone with a medical degree, she was as good as dead. Unless...

He quickly dipped his left hand in some disinfectant before drying it off. "Listen, I need you to stay very calm, okay?" he asked, hoping that the depressive effect of Morphine was taking effect. He realised that he'd given her an adult dose; she'd probably be stoned out of her mind by now, which was exactly what he wanted for this. "Just hold still..."

He opened her mouth and slid his left hand in, wiping around some spit on two fingers, feeling the tiny scars and callouses on his finger soften and heal. With his right hand, he reached into his medkit and pulled out a gleaming black scalpel. The blade was made of obsidian; it was sharp enough to cut through skin without even feeling it, the blade's edge barely a few molecules thick. They weren't sanctioned for medical use by the FDA, but he had bigger things to worry about than that right now.

He removed her shirt, slicing through her chest above her sternum, then along each rib, exposing the broken bones. He didn't feel terribly uncomfortable doing this to her; he'd been forced to combat-operate on nearly every type of person imaginable, fit and healthy, male and female, old and young. After a while, you just got over it and accepted that it was what you had to do to save lives. The cuts were incredibly tiny, barely visible; only the smallest amount of blood poured out of them. As soon as all the cuts were made, he rubbed the spit into each of the cuts, letting it seep into the lacerations. He could hear the faint snap of bones clicking back together. This wasn't going to be a fun experience for her, but it was necessary.

After he was finished, he slid her shirt back on, and walked over to the sink, washing his hands. After he was finished, he walked back to her, kneeling down beside her and rubbing his hand through her hair again. "Are you feeling okay?"

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Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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#, as written by Haas33
Blue Jay thought she went loopy when she was electrocuted. But right now, she was really crazy, from whatever Valentine had injected her with. She almost felt sad, but also like she was on top of the world. She kept wanting to star up into the lights above her. If she wasn't off her rocker right now, she might be happy that Valentine was alive. However, she wasn't doing so hot herself, and she was having trouble breathing. But hey, at the moment all she could think about right now was how pretty Valentine's purple eyes were. Or maybe they were blue? Yellow? Eh, whatever, the world was dizzy and bright, she didn't know up from down, left from right. Before she knew it, she was completely passed out, without a thought in the world.

"If you just stick your arm out sweetheart..." A man said. She was back in her dog crate at the facility, a scientist requesting her arm to inject her with god knows what. "No," she said, pulling her arms in and curling up in a ball. The scientist sighed, then opened her cage. In a flash, she jumped up and barreled the man over, opening her wings and practically whopping him in the head with them. She darted out of the room and startled several other guards. Some chased after her, but she ran out the door. She took to the skies, but like always, it would be over soon. She felt a prick in her leg, and soon she was falling to the ground, a tranquilizer dart numbing her senses. The scientist ran over to her and grinned at her evilly. "Are you feeling Okay?" he asked, but it wasn't his voice. It was Valentine's. "Are you feeling Okay?"

"Are you feeling Okay?" Valentine said, running his hand through her hair. Blue Jay pulled open her eyes, then looked up at him above her. She still felt kind of numb from whatever he injected her with, but her ribs felt better. Almost unbelieving, she pulled up a sore, scratched and bloody hand and gingerly feeling her ribs. Her leg wasn't broken, but if she even put pressure on it, it would hurt. In general, no, she felt like that, but horribly enough, she had had worse. "I'm ok..." She mumbled.

Blue Jay completely felt like crap. It was a wonder she was still alive. Although she did know why she was alive, it was because of Valentine. "Valentine..." she started. But words really couldn't sum up how she was feeling. And normally Blue Jay wasn't an emotional person who really cared about other people. But if it wasn't for him, she would be dead right now. So instead she grabbed the hand that was touching her tangled hair, and looked him in the eye. "Thank you," she said. Then she released his hand.

Blue Jay started healing all her little scratches and really anything that could be healed. However, she was exhausted and in desperate need of a shower. Plus, she steel needed to get her stupid collar off. "Is there any way I can get this thing off?" she asked, pulling at her collar which was most likely chafing her neck raw.

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Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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Valentine sighed with relief as she affirmed that she was okay. He wasn't going to lose anyone else; not her, not today. He didn't know why he felt so protective of her; just that he did. She had so much innocence, so much purity; so much that the world would tear away from her in time, if she should happen to face it alone. She deserved an ordinary, happy life - and instead, she'd been experimented upon and tortured. He wouldn't let it happen to her; not again. And, standing then and there, he swore that he would not lose her.

And, as she grasped his hand, staring into his blue eyes with her brilliant green ones, he saw a glimpse of another life. A life where he didn't have to worry about pain and suffering; a life where he had a house on the beach, he didn't know where, somewhere far away from civilisation. Just wearing normal clothes, not his familiar armour, mask and coat, not the marks of the Sword of Damocles. Standing on the beach, looking out over soft, rolling waves, Stephanie smiling and holding his right hand, and a little girl pointing out at the emptiness in pure, innocent wonder.

And then, all of a sudden, the images of fantasy were washed a way by a torrent of nightmarish memories. A burning crimson sky, gunfire echoing on the streets below, the White House pockmarked with bullet holes and craters, flaming and releasing smoke into the air, choking his lungs. Exhaling softly, staring down a scope, sighting his target. Sliding a bolt closed, chambering a single, fateful round. Pulling the trigger, the bullet screaming over the distance, the rifle's booming report like the thunderclap of an angry god. A single, nightmarish scream of agony-

He shook the images out of his head, hoping that she wasn't reading it at that moment. Nobody should have ever known what he felt at that moment, the horror of knowing that it had happened, that he'd just done the most monstrous thing conceivable. The thing that had taken all semblance of joy, of happiness out of his life. Nobody should have ever known that that had happened.

In response to her thanks, he tousled her hair slightly, smiling reassuringly and saying, "Any time, Jay, any time." Standing up, he thought about her next question, turning his thoughts to business, to war. It was an advanced model, the collar; difficult to remove for sure. Odds were, it'd be rigged to go off if the circuit was broken; it'd kill her, and probably him too, given how powerful Blacklight's explosives could get. Unless...

He turned around to the recently-entered Audra. He noticed something slightly odd about the way she held herself, but ignored it; he had bigger issues to worry about for the moment. "I need some active electrical leads and a strip of rubber," he stated factually, clinically.

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Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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#, as written by Haas33
Blue Jay smiled unsure as Blue Jay tousled her hair, but secretly she was contemplating Valentine's past. She hadn't really meant to read his mind, but to be honest, she couldn't help it. Reading people's minds wasn't something she could stop. Valentine's past seemed to untangle slowly. 'Cupcake' ((did they ever find out her real name?)) was also an interesting case. And as she brought a bunch of electrical mechanical junk out from a drawer, it suddenly dawned on her that something was seriously wrong, and that she didn't want either of them to find out.

While Valentine searched through the stuff she had pulled out, Blue Jay discreetly plucked a tissue from a box beside the bed and stuck the wad in her mouth. Then she pulled it out and wrapped a clean one around it (so Audra could hold it without being completely grossed out. Then she motioned her over and placed it in her hands. "stick it on your wound," she said, pushing her hands toward the red stain on her sweater. "trust me," she said, before nudging her back over to the couch.

After she got this collar off, if it could come off, she would likely take a shower, and load up on food. Speaking of which, she really needed to get something in her. Was she strong enough to stand up? Blue Jay started move, but then thought better off it. "Valentine? Is there any way I could get some food?" She asked. Remembering that 'Cupcake' was thinking earlier about frozen foods, Blue Jay spoke up again. "Look in the freezer. Maybe like, two frozen pizzas, and a 'tv dinner'?" she said. They look of amazement of how much food she wanted made Blue Jay explain. "I have to eat like twice the amount of an adult," she said.

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Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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Valentine selected a long strip of rubber from the supply kit, along with some jump leads and an inverter to hook up to a power point. He wrapped the piece of rubber around Blue Jay's neck, sliding it under the collar, separating the device from her skin and insulating it. He then attached the jump leads to the collar, putting several thousand volts through the device courtesy of the inverter; the steel ring sparked for a few moments, its lights pulsating, before, with a loud fizz, it shut off completely. Valentine pulled a pair of bolt cutters out of the supply kit and sliced through the collar like it was butter.

"All done," he said, smiling. "It's completely short-circuited. Every piece of electronics in there is fried. This same tactic works on everything from microwaves to alarms to jet fighters. Although don't try it with the latter - they have a tendency to blow up, and that's a hell of a mess to clean up."

He watched Blue Jay heal Audra, with a strange mixture of wonder and frustration. If he'd had Blue Jay before, he could have saved people. Saved Leo, for sure; maybe stopped Monica from turning against him. Wouldn't have done anything for Stephanie, though. That was his failure, and his alone.

"I can cook," he said, walking over to the fridge. "I sort of had to learn. My old girlfriend-" he paused. Was it right to have called her that? They'd never really discussed it officially. It had just happened. They'd been too busy running and fighting and killing to actually sort themselves out. Maybe if things had been different... no. He wouldn't dwell on that. Not in Blue Jay's presence. "-couldn't cook at all. Cooking became as much a survival skill as anything, given how unintentionally lethal her food tended to be," he finished, smiling at the memories.

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Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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Valentine just shook his head, smiling a little, walking over to the kitchen and opening up the fridge, taking a look through. Mostly frozen food, with a few fresh ingredients that he could make use of. He'd probably have to get inventive.

"What do you two feel like?"

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Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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#, as written by Haas33
((Very very sorry for my absence. Sadly, I think I might be leaving RPG for a while, and even if i do go on, it will be spotty at times and I can't be responsible for so many characters. Therefore, I am dropping every role-play, and starting a private role-play. That way, I don't have to worry about commitment, when I'm going to be on or off, etc. WHy, you ask? Because my life is hectic right now. In high school, Ive joined indoor percussion which reacquires sooo much commitment. Normally, I have weekends completely open. Instead i spend 12 hours away from my house. I am also in a School production of Seussical Jr. I got the female lead part which means I have to be to every practice. So, that combined with voice lessons on tuesdays, I have....um....no time for homework, let alone RPG. I won't close this role-play if you guys want to keep going, but I am dropping every role-play. I am very sorry. To make it up to you, I will put up one last plot changing post))

Blue Jay didn't really realize she had fallen asleep, that is, until she was woken by the smell of smoke. Blue Jay practically bounced out of bed, still low on food and practically hysterical. She felt exceedingly weak and she almost toppled over. The smell was not coming from the kitchen. (instead, the delightful smell of something cooking wafted from there) The smell was actually coming from the room she was in. Confused, Blue Jay got up and hurried to the kitchen, her mind whizzing. She didn't just smell smoke. She heard thoughts. Thoughts of people not in this room. Blue Jay ran to the fridge and literally shoved anything that would fit into her mouth right in, dismissing the both disgusted and puzzled looks and thoughts of the two preparing a meal. "Bomb" was all she could say, flapping open her wings and shoving with all her might on Valentine, pushing him toward the door.

before Valentine could say a word, she half ran, half flew into the other room, grabbing anything, gun wise, that she could carry. Plopping it at Valentine's feet, she said "we have about a minute" Blue Jay turned again and found a duffle bag and shoved any more equipment she could find, in. She grabbed a small handgun for herself. She didn't know what kind, and honestly didn't care as long as it had bullets in it. Again shoving both of them through the door, she sighed with relief as they made it out. FIve seconds to spare.

"Run," she said, before pushing her wings up and down, each flap pulling at her only recently healed injuries. She was still so fragile. However, once she cleared through the trees, her heart stopped. She literally paused mid-flap, fell, and then regained herself. Before her was something she wished to never see. Above her was the steady Whop, whop, whop, of huge, hulking helicopters, at least ten of them surrounding her. Below her was several dozens of cars. And in the front of all this was 10 Valentines. 10 killer machines. Why mutate some little kid to have wings when you could just make a Valentine?

Blue Jay gulped. Something painful erupted throughout her, and the world became black.

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Character Portrait: Blue Jay Character Portrait: Audra Hathaway Character Portrait: Valentine Knight
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Audra Hathaway

Audra tried not to stare as Blue Jay began stuffing her mouth with food. "Bomb." Audra didn't stiffen or let out a shocked gasp at the statement. She just tore her gaze from the little girl and watched as Blue Jay pushed Valentine to the door, and practically whizzing over to the far wall, throwing weapons in a duffel bag and dropping it at the Man's feet. This only happened in a matter seconds in Audra's head, but she followed the girl out into the sewer. "Run," Blue Jay then flew off down the tunnel. Audra sighed, muttering some very bad words under her breath. I'm guessing we're on our own. She thought to herself as she turned and began to jog away from where Blue Jay went, not caring if Valentine followed after Blue Jay or not. She was thinking and reacting just like she learned to do. Survive, no matter what.

After jogging nonstop for sometime, she turned a corner and along the wall was a ladder leading to the surface. Hesitating only a second, she climbed up and pushed the top open. She practically jumped out of the tunnel and into the alley.