#radagasts

He was leaning against a brick wall, and the floor was cold and wet. The air was thick and warm; drenched with the scent of old food and stale urination, Bilbo found it difficult to breathe in.

I have to get out of here.

He placed his hands down onto the floor and felt the damp grime seep into his cuts, but steeled himself and carefully pushed himself up. He used the wall as a tool for helping him stand, regaining his footing on his aching legs and looking around. Something crunched and rustled underfoot, which Bilbo guessed were crisp packets.

Mercifully, he soon found he was not blind: to his left, a very long way away, a sliver of light presented itself, the promise of a street illuminated by the orange glow of a streetlamp. To his right was only darkness and an assortment of torn bin bags, touched here and there by the dull smear of moonlight, as the walls ran further onwards. He realised quickly that he was down a long, dark alleyway, brick walls encroaching on him on both sides.

Gritting his teeth, he listened for the roar of a motorbike or the wailing of police sirens, but none came. As he waited, holding his breath, he felt a twinging in his right thigh. Since his eyes had not yet adjusted enough to look by himself, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and pressed the unlock key, inspecting his leg by the light to find it had been cut by glass in the crash. He peeled back his torn jeans to peer at it, but it was only a superficial wound, and had stopped bleeding sometime while he was passed out. He let out a sigh of relief.

It appears I got lucky. I hope Thorin’s alright. Maybe he’ll have left me some texts or somethi-

Before he could check, a skinny grey cat with matted fur circled the light of the phone and slunk past, startling him into letting out a yap of fright and tearing him from his thoughts. It gave him a reproachful look as it wandered past towards a pile – almost a hill! thought Bilbo – of overflowing rubbish bags, torn open, their innards spilling onto the ground, where it would find its next meal.

It was then, and only then, that Bilbo saw movement among the darkness, so close to where he was standing. At first he thought it was water, sliding through the piles of rubbish, but then he realised by the dim light that it was a figure, humanoid in shape but not in movement – far too fluid, far too predatory to be human. It moved towards the cat with careful deliberation and barely a rustle, and the animal itself was too busy with the carcass of a rotting fish to notice.

Bilbo watched, suddenly very afraid, although whether for the cat or himself he wasn’t too sure. He shoved his phone back into his pocket, so not to raise attention to himself, and backed away as quietly as he could. He watched the figure raise a hand – or were they claws? – and strike.

The metallic ringing of empty cans spilling from bin bags filled the alleyway as there was a scuffle; the figure stood up and then the cat was hissing and snarling, held by a firm grip on the scruff of its neck. It squirmed and clawed at its captor’s hands, but the figure jumped on its heap of rubbish triumphantly, singing: "The Felix breath, the jaws of death, the claws-ed feet! The whiskers and tail, all thin and frail, so bare of meat!”

Something flew out of the figure’s pocket and careered towards Bilbo; a dark shape made of harsh lines which were highlighted with white as it careered through the air, landing on the ground almost silently just centimetres from Bilbo’s hand.

 “No more purrs, inside his furs, so juicy-sweet!”

Bilbo reached out and felt the object. The cold, hard metal of a handgrip, the smooth barrel, the trigger.

“And with belly all fat, what a lovely cat, so juicy-sweet!"

He gasped. Then saw the dull light above him as a pair of eyes fixed on him.

The cat was dropped and Bilbo heard it run away through the scattered bin bags with a shrill cry. Without thinking, he stuffed the gun in his back pocket before turning on heel and running towards the sliver of light at the end of the alleyway, the orange glow of the street light so close, and yet so far.

He had barely taken five steps, however, when he felt a hand, cold and clammy, close around his wrist. The skin was dry, like paper, and sharp pieces of broken nail dug into his arm as the grip tightened. He tried to cry out, but the shout was forced out of him in a whimper as he was slammed into the alley wall.

This voice which came from the darkness was that which had just pierced the night with its sadistic song, but now it was quiet and almost soft. "What is it, Precious-ss?" Bilbo noticed it was high and lilting, like that of a child. "What is it?" His hands were all over Bilbo, feeling his arms, his face. Bilbo grimaced and held his breath; the smell of rotting fish and dead things lingered on the fingers. Then the thing growled, its voice lowered, and it snapped, "What is it?!"

"B-Baggins!" Bilbo replied hurriedly in the blind hope that the creature would let him go, feeling its hands in his hair and fear gripping every nerve in his body. "Bilbo Baggins!"

"Bagginses?" the creature replied. He took his hands away from Bilbo and adopted a tone of confusion. "Bagginses? Well we've never had a Bagginses before, has we, Precious-ss? We's had rats and cats and old Greggs sausage rolls, but never a Bagginses."

"Excuse me," the man uttered in a pathetic voice. "Could I just--"

"Is it soft?" inquired the creature. Bilbo felt fingertips poking at his waistline, squeezing his arms, feeling his cheeks. "Is it juicy?"

The hairs stood up on the back of Bilbo’s neck. A crawling sensation rippled up his spine, and he couldn't breathe for the musky, sickly smell all around. He pushed the creature away, to which it hissed, almost cat-like. He felt spots of saliva land on his cheek. "Look," Bilbo began, trying to adopt an authoritative tone, "if you could stop this and help me find the way out of here I would be most obliged."

The creature stopped moving, seeming to consider his words. "Help?"

"Help, yes!"

"We… we help?"

Bilbo nodded, seeing the bright eyes watch his movements.

"Help… help Bagginses?"

"Yes, yes," Bilbo confirmed, feeling a small bubble of hope inflate in his stomach. "Help Baggins. Es."

"No!" the creature suddenly screamed, in a deep, low note. "No, we eats it!"

Bilbo felt any blood which remained in his face drain out of it. "No, no, no, no," Bilbo replied quickly, "we don't eat it. Cannibalism is frowned upon in most societies! A-and Baggins has places to be."

"Places-ss? Places, Precious-ss?" 

The clouds overhead shifted, and a knife’s edge of moonlight filtered down into the alleyway. Had Bilbo looked around he would have seen the pile of rags in front of the hot air vent on the opposite wall which formed some kind of nest, just big enough for a man to curl up in, and he would have seen the things under his feet which he thought were crisp packets were actually the bones of various animals. He found himself sufficiently distracted from his surroundings, however.

The creature, Bilbo realised in the dim light, was not actually a creature at all. It was a man, though not like any Bilbo had ever seen. His skin was blotchy and mottled, a pale shade between peach and grey, blossoming with angry welts and rashes over his face and head, which was bald save for a few wisps of long hair. Bilbo reckoned the stranger would have been taller than him had his back not been contorted into a curve, barely covered by a few rags which he was sure would have once resembled clothes. His fingers were permanently clenched into hands which resembled claws, but it was his face which most struck Bilbo: his eyes were wide and sunken into his waxy skin, circled by dark bags, and his mouth was contorted into an open grimace, exposing his chipped, tarnished teeth and the grey tongue inside which flicked out and licked his thin lips before he spoke again.

"What places for a Bagginses?"

“I uh…” Bilbo uttered, trying to back further into the wall. He felt his legs weaken and his hand went instinctively to the gun in his pocket. “Just a meeting… a meeting place for friends.”

“Friendses? Friendses of Bagginses?”

“Yes, friends.”

“Can we come? We’s never had a friendses before, either! Shut up!”

Bilbo blinked, confused. “Sorry, what?”

“We wasn’t talking to you,” the man snarled, to which he replied to himself with, “Well yes, yes we was, Precious-ss.”

“Well I was uh,” Bilbo began, trying to cut in before he could continue the conversation with himself, “I was just wondering if you’d mind terribly if I just uh… left?”

“Let it leave? No, Precious-ss, no.” His tone became steadily deeper, more feral. “No. No! No! We eats it!” the man snarled, his eyes suddenly narrowing, becoming wild. “We eats it!” He lunged at Bilbo, wrapping his fingers around his shoulders, pushing him against the wall, mouth shining with spittle and drool.

Bilbo’s shout was lost to the dark alley, to the harsh breathing in front of him. Come on, come on, think! Save yourself!

“No, no!” Bilbo protested, trying to keep the tone of his voice to one below hysterical. He took hold of the man’s clammy hands and tried to prise them off, just as he tried to ignore the foul breath and broken teeth which could pull him to shreds merely centimetres away. “N-no one eats Baggins, we’re horrible without proper cooking a-and we have… worms in our tubes and, uh, a-and parasites! Massive parasites!”

The grip suddenly relaxed on Bilbo’s shoulders. “Parasites?” repeated the man, and the mild tone of gentle inquisitiveness was back.

Before the man could change his mind, Bilbo stammered the first thing he could think of: “Wh-what’s your name?”

“Name…?” His eyes grew wide, shining dully in the dark. “Name…” He released his hands from Bilbo’s clothes and tangled them together, inspecting his gnarled knuckles and twisted bones. “Murderer they called us… They cursed us… They cursed us!” he snapped. Bilbo flinched, bracing himself for another onslaught, but the man carried on: “And we wept, Precious-ss, didn’t we? We wept to be alone… And we only wish to catch cats so juicy sweet.” He shuffled away from Bilbo. “And we forgot the taste of bread… the sound of treeses… the softness of the wind.”

“London isn’t that bad,” Bilbo joked, trying to laugh.

“We even forgot our own names, didn’t we? Didn’t we, Precious-ss?” Then he doubled over, and a foul sound, like two violent hacking coughs, erupted from his throat.

“A-are you okay?” Bilbo asked, rooting into his pocket for a handkerchief to give to the man. “Are you sick?”

He straightened up as much as his hunched back would allow and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Smeagol,” the man purred.

“Sorry? Sorry, what?”

“Name! Name, Precious-ss! Smeagol!”

“Smeagol,” Bilbo repeated. “Well, Smeagol, how about you uh… how about you help me out of here?”

“Why? Where is the Bagginses going?”

“Bagginses needs to go and meet some friends about a man.”

“What man?”

“Now I can’t tell you that, I—”

But then the voice lowered, and the eyes narrowed. “What man?”

“A uh a big powerful man,” Bilbo quickly blurted, “who stole something who belongs to a— uh— a friend of mine.”

“Stole? Stole their Precious-ss?”

“Yes, yes! Stole their precious!”

“Well we would hate if someone stole our precious-ss, wouldn’t we, Precious-ss?” His tongue lolled out of his mouth before smearing over his lips, and he approached Bilbo like a puppy. “We will help!”

Bilbo grimaced. “Ah ah, don’t come any closer!” He held up his hand and Smeagol halted, looking reproachful. The sound of dripping was beginning to irk him. “I don’t think you can, Smeagol. See it’s a… a precious which is well hidden.”

“Hidden? Hidden where?”

Bilbo swallowed. “If I tell you, will you let me out of this place?” Smeagol nodded. Bilbo looked around as though to check no one was listening. Something which felt suspiciously like a large rodent scuttled behind his ankles. “It’s in a bank… a big bank, which a big, powerful man owns. His name is Smaug. He owns the LMBC.”

“Smaug,” Smeagol repeated, drawing out the ‘s’ like gas hissing from a tiny hole in a pipe. “And…” He looked over his shoulders as Bilbo had done, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And what is the precious-ss?”

Bilbo felt a twitch develop at the side of his mouth. “You’ll let me out of here, won’t you? Once I tell you?”

“Doesn’t he believe us, Precious-ss?” Smeagol whispered, and Bilbo could hear the threat in his words, crawling over his tongue like a spider and injecting each sound with malice.

“Wait, wait! Alright! It’s a diamond. A really, really big diamond.”

“And your friendses? They wants it back?”

“Yes.”

“They’re going to steal the precious-ss from Smaug?”

“Y— well, no, not really. I mean, you can’t steal what’s rightfully yours, can you?” He shivered when Smeagol did not answer, pulling his jumper tighter around him. He felt the muzzle of the gun press into his thigh. “A-alright? Will you let me go now?”

“Go? Go now?” He laughed in short rasping breaths. “No, Precious-ss, no!”

“But you said you would let me go!”

Smeagol pulled his hand from behind his back, his gnarled fingers crossed. He clapped at his own genius, and the sound reverberated around the alleyway, sounding like the chattering of the pincers of a hundred bugs.

Bilbo’s shoulders sagged; he looked at the end of the alley and knew if he ran he wouldn’t get far. “Look, this isn’t a game, I—”

“Games-ss! Oh, games, we likes games! Doesn’t we, Precious-ss?” He jumped animatedly, his lips stretching around his gums as he smiled. “Yes, yes!” He leered at Bilbo, cleared his throat and spoke slowly, deliberately, drawing out every syllable:

  “I never was, but am always to be,

No one ever saw me, nor ever will see.

I can’t rise with the sun; I die at first light,

Yet I am still strong with seconds to midnight.

But still I am the future of all,

Who live and breathe on this little round ball.”

  Bilbo bit his lip as he considered each word in turn, making sure he knew it rightly enough. He took a deep breath and licked his lips. “Tomorrow. The answer is tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes!” Smeagol nodded, before throwing back his head and rasping out a few notes of laughter. “Oh this is fun, isn’t it, Precious-ss? Another! Go on, go on! Ask us another!”

“Riddles?” Bible pondered contemplatively. “You like riddles?”

“Riddles, riddles-ss! Yes, Precious-ss!” Then he doubled over and coughed again, and meandered away down the alley, muttering darkly, “No, we’re wasting time, we eats it now! Finish him!” He turned, straightening as he did, and prowled back towards Bilbo.

“No no,” Bilbo replied hastily, stepping backwards. Smeagol hissed and spat at him. “I want to play.”

His eyes widened. “Yes?”

“Yes. Yes, I do, I want to play. So” – he squatted down a little, to meet Smeagol’s height – “how about- how about you and me have a game of riddles? Hm? Just us.”

“Just us? Yes, yes!”

Bilbo lowered his voice to a whisper more suited to be heard by a child. “But, if I win, you show me the way out.”

Smeagol breathed heavily as he considered this, strumming his lip with his index finger. “And- and if we win? What then, Precious-ss?”

“Well… what would you like?”

Smeagol pursed his lips, face screwed up from thinking hard. He turned away from Bilbo and hunched over, whispering: “What does we want, Precious-ss? What does we want from the Bagginses?” and then he snapped, apparently at himself, in the harsh bark of a voice, with, “Nothing, nothing except his flesh and bones!”

Bilbo leant closer, feeling the prickle at the back of his neck as his hair stood on end.

“Well yes, of course, Precious-ss! He does look very juicy sweet! But games, Precious-ss, games-ss!”

“Enough of your games! We eats it now!”

“No, Precious-ss! We plays its games fair and square, and then we eats it.” Smeagol suddenly turned, and Bilbo found his face unbearably close to that of the stranger’s. His lips twitched and he concluded mildly, “If Baggins loses, we eats it whole.”

Bilbo stared into Smeagol’s bloodshot eyes under the saggy lids, not quite knowing whether he was being serious or not. His brow furrowed as he searched for some sort of reply. Either way what choice do I have?

Eventually, he decided on a simple, “Fair enough,” and straightened up.

Smeagol laughed. “Bagginses first!”

Bilbo pondered swiftly, searching for any riddles from his childhood on the edge of his subconscious. He looked around for inspiration and glanced up at the dark sky, tinged with orange from the London light pollution. He nodded, decided:

  “They come in their thousands on little white steeds,

By one they are massacred, but none ever bleeds.

They watch the watchers, over their heads,

Restless, they protect those asleep in their beds.

They disappear from view, but by no thief are they taken,

For what does not sleep can never awaken.”

  Smeagol took in Bilbo’s words, his brow progressively furrowing. He paced down the alley and back up in great, lumbering lurches, his bare feet patting on the damp floor. As Bilbo watched with delight, sure he was about to win, Smeagol’s face contorted with confusion; he grimaced and groaned, muttered and moaned – but then: “Starses?”

Bilbo’s shoulders slumped.

“Starses!” he exclaimed, and, with surprising agility, slunk back towards Bilbo. “Keep thinking about them,” he hissed, “just in case you doesn’t see starses again.”

Bilbo gulped.

“Our turn,” Smeagol snarled. He moved steadily towards Bilbo as he spoke, gradually backing him into a corner.

  “Only one colour, but not one size,

Fixed, ever-present, yet easily flies.

Close friend in sun, betrayer in dark,

Leaving no trace and leaking no mark.

An immortal life, not easily slain,

Doing no harm, and feeling no pain.”

  Bilbo swallowed, closing his eyes as though it would block out the smell around him, the encroaching fear gripping at his limbs and making his heart pound. He found that not being able to see Smeagol only added to the fear, however, and quickly reopened them.“Not one size,” he muttered, “and seen in sun but not in dark.”

“Give up?” Smeagol goaded. “We’ll make it quick, as long as you don’t strug-”

“Shadow!” Bilbo shouted. “The answer is a shadow!”

Smeagol’s upper lip folded back in a snarl. His hands clenched into fists. “Ask us.”

Bilbo floundered, desperately running through his mind for another riddle. Come on, come on.

“Ask us!” he demanded.

“Hold on, hold on! I can’t think, give me a moment to think!”

“If you can’t think, you can always forfeit,” Smeagol growled, deep in his throat. “You can always let us eats y-”

  “St-straight from a bar from which no wine flows,

From a dish with no food to eat.

You put it on you to take things off,

From your head down to your feet.

Just like a beer it bubbles and froths,

Refreshes you just like cool water.

But for all of its good points, you don’t seem

To use it as much as you oughta.”

  Bilbo thought it was very easy, and knew that his panic had sent him into formulating rhymes about the thing he most wanted at that moment, but when he saw Smeagol’s face he decided that he had done rather well.

Smeagol exhaled his breath out through the gaps in his teeth, titillating the spittle on his lips and making a low-pitched bubbling sound. He hissed to himself, whispered and spluttered, but still he didn’t give an answer.

“Well?” demanded Bilbo, for both impatience and the concern that Smeagol would get bored and return to trying to eat him before the end of their game. “What is it?”

“Give us a chance!” He shook his head wildly. “Make it give us a chance, Precious-ss!”

Bilbo tapped his foot, watching Smeagol as he deliberated and wondered, giving him a good long chance. “It’s not a kettle boiling over, as you seem to think from the noises you’re making.”

“Hush, Bagginses!” Smeagol spat, screwing up his face in concentration. Then realisation dawned on his countenance as it came to him, as though from a long-lost memory suddenly surfacing. “Soap!” he cried. “Soap it is!” Without hesitating, he gurgled:

  “I am made of four parts, without one I’m not whole,

I lack a voice, feeling, body or soul.

I die without air, yet I have no breath,

I am the mother which sustains life and death.

I live in the oceans, the rivers and seas,

Yet still I float on water and fly on the breeze.

With me together, I am through generations cherished.

Without me, you’d most likely have perished.”

  Bilbo cleared his throat two or three times, waiting for an answer to come as he mulled over every word in turn. Nothing came to him but contradictions. He wished at that moment that he was at home, in his armchair, reading the riddle from the evening paper when it would not mean that it meant the difference between his life or funeral. “Fo-… sorry, did you say four parts?”

Smeagol hissed, pleased. “I wonder if it’s nice, my Precious. Is it soft? Is it scrumptiously crunchable?”

“Wait!” Bilbo rebuked, shivering. “I gave you a good long while just now!”

Smeagol swayed on the spot, licking his lips. He bared his jagged teeth.

“Four parts…” A gust of warm, dank air passed Bilbo’s face, and he wrinkled his nose. The dripping nearby seemed to get louder. A young boy’s voice nearby was shouting something about hiding fireworks, and the ground beneath his feet seemed more physical, as though they were exerting more pressure on his brogues. Wind, liquid, firework, ground…

“Air, water, fire, earth!” Bilbo gasped triumphantly. “The four elements!”

Smeagol let out a cry like a wounded animal, clutching his skull. “No, Precious-ss, no!” When his wild eyes fixed back on Bilbo he was breathing heavily, hands clenching and unclenching. “One more! Just one more chance, Bagginses.”

“U-uh,” Bilbo stammered, feeling very claustrophobic and unable to think. The lack of sleep and food was suddenly weighing heavily on his brain, now that the adrenaline was wearing off. He felt his eyelids growing heavier despite himself.

“One more question,” Smeagol whispered to himself absently, stroking the back of one hand with his other. “Just one more question to guess, Precious-ss, yes, yes-ss. Then we finish it.”

“Let me… Let me just…” Trying to keep himself from being overtaken by sleep and hunger, he moved slowly from his confinement in the corner, watching the man’s eyes watch him. “Let me think.”

“Ask us!”

“Let me think!”

“Ask us a question!”

Bilbo felt the muzzle of the gun digging into the top of his thigh as he walked and, more out of instinct than proper intellectual consideration, he blurted, “What have I got in my back pocket?”

Snarling, Smeagol physically recoiled. “What? But… that’s not fair. That’s not fair!”

“You said for me to ask you a question,” Bilbo quickly justified, “and that was my question.”

Smeagol writhed and cried out. “It must give us three guesses!”

“Fine.”

“Handses!”

Bilbo held up his hands. “Wrong. Guess again.”

He panicked, looking around him desperately, lumbering over to the mountain of bin bags and rooting through. “Campbell’s soup tin, no! Banana skin, no! Chicken wings, Baguette Express, Durex – no, no, no, no, no!” He threw everything over his shoulder as he inspected it and, among the skittering noises of rotting things rolling down the alley, Bilbo began to step slowly backwards.

“Mobile phone?!” he said at last, turning to gaze at Bilbo through the dark.

He pulled his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans to prove his response: “Nope. One more guess.”

“String!” Smeagol cried, and then added, voice low and dark, “or nothing.”

“That’s two guesses, both wrong,” Bilbo declared triumphantly.

Smeagol bellowed a long, shrill note and collapsed to the floor in a heap, rocking and shivering. “No, Precious-ss, no,” he repeated to himself in a murmur, his voice adopting a chanting, hypnotic quality.

“I… hello?”

Smeagol ignored him, his mouth moving but no words coming out.

“So I uh… I’ll be going now.” He took another step backwards, towards the orange streetlight glow.

“Did we say so, Precious-ss?” Smeagol asked softly. “Did we say it could leave us? Did we say we’d let the nasty little Bagginses go? Yes-ss, Precious-ss, yes-ss. But what has it got in its pocketses?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Smeagol leered at Bilbo, reaching surreptitiously reaching into a small pouch secured around his waist. His fingers pushed inside, feeling for his one defence, his one protection. His eyes widened when he felt nothing but damp material; empty.

He let out a screech which sent chills down Bilbo’s spine like the strings of a ferociously played cello. He cursed and wailed, suddenly scrambling and clawing at the ground around him, searching in the gloom. “Where is it?! Where is-ss it?! Lost, my precious, lost! My precious is lost!”

In hindsight, Bilbo knew he should have turned on heel and run away as fast as his legs would carry him then. However, bewildered, he stayed: “Lost? What’s lost?”

“It mustn’t ask it, it mustn’t ask! Not its business! It’s lost!” He stopped just long enough to hack a few of his coughs from his lungs before carrying on his frantic search. “Lost! Lost! The precious!”

“What have you lost?”

“The precious! We must find it, we must!” Suddenly Smeagol halted on his frenzied search. His head swivelled as his eyes fixed once more on Bilbo. “If not string or nothing,” he hissed, “what has it got in its nasty pocketses?”

Bilbo felt his breath hitch under the intense scrutiny of Smeagol. The creature’s eyes looked as though they were burning. He looked over his shoulder, could see the end of the alley way, the quiet road beyond. Run, Bilbo. You can make it.

Smeagol stood, quivering with rage. “What has it got in its nasty. Little. Pocketses.”

Bilbo turned and bolted as fast as his legs would take him, tearing his eyes off the creature just as he saw it spring towards him from the floor on all fours as though pouncing on prey. He reached to the handgrip of the gun in his back pocket, pulled it out and blindly pulled the trigger. He had expected nothing to come out, not knowing whether it was actually loaded, so when a bang cut through the night and a flash lit up the alley way behind him he let out a yell of sheer terror.

Then he felt the hand around his leg.

Tumbling to the ground, Bilbo’s cheek hit the floor and he tasted blood from between his teeth. He heard the snarls and growls for the precious from behind him and kept his hand firmly on the gun. Grunting from the effort, his body finally screaming at him for respite, he kicked out wildly, refusing the creature to get more purchase on his body, thrusting his legs out until he felt his heel connect with skull, until there was a blood-curdling shriek and the hand relinquished its grip, and he was already running out into the cool, empty street, under the soft glow of the streetlamp, before he had found his feet properly.

He was vaguely aware of a hand on his shoulder. “Laddie, you don’t have a car, do you?” came Balin’s voice through the haze.

“No,” Bilbo heard himself reply, “I have a bicycle, and—”

“Come on!” Balin cut in, and for the first time Bilbo could register the panic in his voice. “Come with me.” Balin pushed him into the car park and up the stairs to the third floor. By the time they got there they were both short of breath and Balin was fumbling for his keys. Once he had stopped his hand shaking enough to unlock his scuffed Ford Capri, he wrenched open the door and slid into the driver’s seat, key stumbling over the ignition.

Bilbo clambered through the passenger door, falling into the seat with his shaking legs no longer able to support him. He felt some of the stuffing in the seat push out from a hole under his thigh. “Balin, what’s happening?”

“Seatbelts,” he reminded Bilbo hastily, giving him the impression that Balin hadn’t even heard him. As Bilbo obeyed with shaking hands Balin turned the key in the ignition. The car coughed and spluttered. “Come on, old girl, come on,” Balin whispered, glancing repeatedly into the rear-view mirror. The sound of roaring motorbikes was echoing around the car park, but neither of them could see one yet. Bilbo couldn’t help but think they were being stalked; hunted. The car eventually juddered into life and Bilbo gripped the sides of his seat, hoping against hope that soon he would wake up, safe, in his bed.

Balin swung the car from its space and careered across the almost-empty level, towards the helter-skelter which led to the ground floor. He sped down it and approached the exit. “Oh!” he suddenly panicked, “we haven’t paid the parking ticket? How do we get out?”

As though being answered by some ferocious beast, the air was suddenly full of the sound of a bellowing engine reverberating off the walls. The two men in the little Capri leant forwards to see Dwalin in his Land Rover at the far end of the car park, opposite the barriers which led onto the streets. There was another roar as he pressed his accelerator down to the floor, the screeching of tires, and then he was charging forwards like a bull. He hit the barriers with enough force to snap it clean off and carried it out into the road on his grills, not slowing down to let it fall off.

“Convenient,” Bilbo commented, and hoped the hysterical laugh he heard didn’t actually come out of his mouth. Behind the Capri, Thorin pounded the horn of his Chevrolet Impala, urging every man out of the car park before him.

Balin didn’t need telling twice – he pushed down the accelerator and followed after Dwalin. “Hold on, laddie,” he warned, choking on his strained words.

Being very late in the evening, the sky now turning from navy to black, the roads were mercifully quiet, though not quite enough to avoid the risk of accident. Balin weaved in and out of cars, safe in the gaps left by Dwalin’s chaotic wake. All around them was a hymnal chorus of car horns and cursing drivers, but Balin had no attention to lend to them.

When Bilbo looked at him he was pale, mouth half-open, a green tinge around his cheeks. Somewhere in the pandemonium he had lost his bowler hat, and his flyaway hair was wild and dishevelled. “Balin, what’s going on?” Bilbo uttered. He turned in his seat to look out of the rear window; he could make out the headlights of the company’s cars behind him but then, getting closer even as he watched, motorbikes snaking up behind them. “Who are they?”

“I’m wondering that myself, laddie, but if Thorin says to run I’m not going to stand around and question him.” Then –“Oh bugger.”

Bilbo turned back in his seat just in time to see a huge traffic jam directly in front of them, queuing at a set of traffic lights in anticipation to move onto a roundabout. “Oh, gosh, Balin, I—” His eyes were trained on the back of Dwalin’s car, monitoring what he was going to do; he swerved abruptly and sailed down the wrong side of the road, taking the roundabout towards oncoming traffic. “No, no! Balin, no, I—”

“Hold on, laddie!” Balin declared, seeming to get some steel in his blood. He flicked the indicator before following Dwalin to the wrong side of the road.

Bilbo screamed a long, loud note, gradually getting higher, as they sped around the roundabout. He gripped the handle above the passenger door. “I’m going to die, no, oh no, oh gosh—!”

“Be a good lad and keep the noise down?” Balin inquired mildly, swerving between roaring cars which were seconds before on a collision course. “It’s hard enough to drive as it is!”

Bilbo turned to scream at Balin about how ludicrous that was, about how he wanted to live and retract his contract – only all sound was ripped from his mouth as he set eyes on the dark-clad figure on the motorbike directly outside Balin’s window, keeping its speed at that of the car’s. Bilbo pointed and stammered and blubbered, unable to form the sentence to explain to Balin that they were in immediate danger, but even as he was desperately trying to do so he was rendered silent with dread.

The figure on the motorbike, now using only one hand to steer, raised his other. Bilbo saw it lit in the flashes of streetlights as they sailed around the roundabout; a gun, sleek and deadly, in his gloved hand.

I’m going to die. For a moment Bilbo imagined the face behind the blacked-out visor – the sneering mouth and malicious intent in their pupils – and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ready himself for the end. I’m going to die and I haven’t even put the bin out yet.

The gunshot rang through the car like thunder locked in the boot. Bilbo felt his stomach jolt and contort in sickening motions, but nothing hurt like he imagined it would. If this is dying I suppose it’s not so bad.

 But the longer he waited, the less sure he was of his demise. Rather than fading out, sounds seemed to be becoming clearer over the faint ringing in his ears which the gunshot had caused; the screeching of wheels all around, what sounded like the whooshing of air, Balin’s breathing. Bilbo opened his eyes only when he was sure he felt no pain, but soon wished he hadn’t.

The car was at an angle, sliding down the road on three screeching wheels and one, Bilbo realised, which had been shot. Other cars soared up to meet them, swerving to avoid them just at the last minute, and the cacophony of car horns was still all around. Balin reached down and pulled the hand brake up violently, to which both he and Bilbo were thrown forwards in their seats, held only by their seatbelts. The car halted in the middle of the incoming lane; when the two men looked out of their windows, the motorbike was nowhere to be seen.

Balin and Bilbo looked at each other. Balin looked like he was about to open his mouth to speak, when suddenly the air bags threw themselves from the dashboard with a crash which made both of them yell, and they were both fumbling with their seatbelts to get out, run.

Dwalin, having seen the entire catastrophe in his rear-view mirror, was reversing at high speed back towards his brother’s car. He halted only when his back wheels were mounting the curb of the roundabout and threw open the door. “Balin! C’mon, ge’ in!” Balin scrambled into the Land Rover and slammed the door before they sped away, leaving Bilbo to clamber out of the car, alone.

The realisation hit him like a hammer to the chest, smashing his heart to the floor. They left me. I’m going to die here. He looked around him desperately, looking for somewhere to hide. His ears were filled with roaring. I’m going to die. I’m going to—

A pair of huge hands grabbed him by the jacket, fingertips digging into his already bruised shoulders. A cigarette was between the index and middle finger of the right hand. He cried out, scrabbling at them, knowing it would be one of the bikers hunting him down; he was about to be stabbed, shot, tortured, worse!

“Shut up,” growled the voice at his shoulder. It tasted like fresh tobacco. He was lifted off his feet and he flailed helplessly, feeling tears of panic rise behind his eyes. He was then thrown into a car – but not a boot, as he expected. He found himself on a plush white leather seat – a passenger seat; over the deep rumble of the stopped car, Bilbo could hear the radio or a CD playing in the vehicle. It was a slow, easy-listening tune with low-voiced singer, and seemed completely out of place in the circumstances.

The door was slammed shut behind him, making him flinch, but as he watched the figure move around the bonnet he recognised the heavy steps, the hunched shoulders, in the light of the encroaching headlights.

“Thorin!” he exclaimed as the car’s owner slid into the driver’s seat.

“If you mess up the leather, I’ll mess up your face,” he threatened in greeting. He placed his half-consumed cigarette between his lips before holding the steering wheel and pressing down the accelerator, hard. The car lurched into life like a hare and bounded around the roundabout, turning off at the exit which Dwalin’s Land Rover has disappeared down.

Bilbo hastened to put on his seatbelt, feeling as though his heart was back in his body but was lodged in his throat; he felt the dire urge to vomit. He looked out of every window in turn, able to see no one around except the strangers in their cars around them and Dwalin in front. Again he was struck with the notion that he was being stalked. “Thorin,” he spluttered, “what’s going on? Who are these people?”

Thorin sighed resignedly. “Is that all I get from you, Baggins? No ‘thank you, Thorin’? It’s not as if I saved your worthless behind or anything.” He took the cigarette from his mouth and looked over his shoulder agitatedly.

“You wouldn’t have had to if your friend had let me get in his car!”

“You think Dwalin would have really left you to die if he hadn’t seen me pulling up behind Balin’s car? He’s a big panda really, he wouldn’t have left you, trust me.” He motioned the cigarette towards Bilbo warningly. “Don’t you dare tell him I said that.” Then his brow furrowed. “Hold on,” he growled.

“No, you can’t go over WaterlooBridge!”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Thorin muttered. He veered to the left as two motorbikes came from the streets on either side of the car, their wheels shrieking as they turned to follow the Chevy Impala.

Bilbo fumbled with his pocket, struggling to pull out his phone. “I-I’m calling the police.”

“No,” Thorin snapped. “I don’t want any police involved. They couldn’t do anything if they tried.”

“But Thorin, I—!”

“Call the police and I throw you out of the car.”

“But—!”

“There are some gloves in the glove compartment. Pass them to me.”

“How can you be thinking about gloves at a time like this?!”

“Just do it, Baggins.”

Bilbo pulled on the handle hurriedly. In the compartment was a collection of neatly stacked CDs, a bottle of anti-freeze and a pair of soft leather gloves. He pulled them out and threw them on Thorin’s lap, eyeing the passenger window for two motorbikes which was no doubt almost on top of them.

Without thanks, Thorin proceeded to pull the gloves on with his teeth, switching the cigarette from hand to hand in order to do so. He tailed Dwalin onto the bridge, weaving in and out of screaming traffic. Pressing the accelerator down into the floor, Thorin charged closer to Dwalin’s car, levelling out at the same speed of the Land Rover when they were side by side. “Baggins, put down your window,” he barked, jamming the cigarette between his teeth.

Bilbo obeyed, and Thorin leant over him, driving one-handedly.

Over the rushing of wind and passing traffic, Thorin roared, “Dwalin, give me an arm!”

As Bilbo watched out of the window, babbling something about being about to crash and burn, Dwalin reached into a duffle jacket and pulled out a Glock G21. In a flash he threw it to Thorin, who caught it by the handgrip.

“Only take out the motorbike wheels, I want no casualties,” Thorin bellowed.

“Aye!” Dwalin replied.

“Split up at the end of the bridge!”

“Aye!”

“Put that cigarette out, laddie!” Balin cried out disapprovingly, before the cars parted and his voice was lost.

“What is that?!” Bilbo cried as soon as he’d found his tongue. He couldn’t take his eyes off the weapon in Thorin’s hand.

Thorin glanced at him, brow furrowing. “It’s a toaster.”

“No it’s not, it’s a gun!”

“Why did you ask then?” He took his eyes off the bridge to look around his seat and out of the rear-view window. “Just make yourself useful and take the wheel, Baggins.”

Before he could, Thorin was opening his window and twisting in his seat to lean out of it. He held onto the top of the Impala with one hand and aimed the Glock with the other. Bilbo cried out as the car began to veer off to the left, straight into the path of an oncoming 59 bus, and jerked the steering wheel to the right. “I’ve never driven before!” he exclaimed.

“Keep it straight,” Thorin barked in an impatient reply. Bilbo glanced over to him in time to see him breathe slowly, deeply, aiming. Then he pulled the trigger.

This can’t be happening. He looked into the rear-view mirror to see one of the motorbikes following them snaking violently across the bridge, its front wheel shot and useless, and its occupant being thrown off against the railings. This can’t be happening. There was another shot, presumably directed towards the other motorcyclist, but Bilbo couldn’t make out the shape in the dark. I refuse to believe it.

“When Gandalf said he was going to invite someone to help in this quest I thought at least he’d be able to drive,” Thorin muttered as he lowered himself back into his seat. He placed the gun in his lap and wound up his window, regaining control of the steering wheel.

“Well I am sorry, but I don’t seem to remember there being anything about guns in the contract!”

He gritted his teeth as he took an abrupt right, then left, then right again down a quieter side street. “Oh there was, something about being able to utilise as much force as is necessary or something like that. It was on page four, or somewhere around there.”

“Surely that doesn’t involve guns!”

“They’re forceful, aren’t they?”

“That’s not the point!”

“The point is if you had a car you never would have seen it.”

“It’s just more convenient for me to have a bicycle, I— Can we get back to what’s at hand?!” He jerked his thumb frantically towards the rear-view window. “Who are they?”

Thorin sighed again. “They call themselves the Goblins,” he admitted in a mutter, as though the word tasted worse in his mouth than his recent intake of tobacco. “They’re an underground group.”

“How are they not all in prison?”

Thorin laughed humourlessly. “They’re slippery bastards. Besides, the police are easily threatened or paid off.”

“And why are they after us?”

He cleared his throats.

“Thorin Oakenshield, you tell me right now.”

“Wow, I wouldn’t have brought you along if I knew you were my mother either,” he spat. “They work for Azog.”

“Azo—Azog?! The loan shark that’s been trying to kill you?”

“Well I haven’t checked the phone book recently to see if there are any more Azogs, but I’m guessing so.”

“How did they find you?!”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Baggins. It’s been five years, so they must have been tipped off by someone? Just finally tracked me down? I don’t know. All I know is that all of us are in danger n— Shit.” Bilbo looked from Thorin to outside the window, just in time to see a packed line of cars directly in front of them. “Hold on.”

“No, you can’t, that’s a cycle lane, I— Thorin, no!” Bilbo hollered.

Thorin ignored him and turned into the lane, speeding down it. “We need to get out of here.”

“You’re going to kill a cyclist! You’re going to— oh my gosh!” He gripped his seat and pushed himself so straight he was hovering above it, toes curling in his shoes in panic. “Thorin, stop!”

Thorin weaved past a group of cyclists in fluorescent gear, earning himself cries of protest, but he merely pushed the volume of the radio louder.

“Thorin!”

“Baggins?”

“Stop!”

“No.”

“Please?!”

“No.”

“I’m going to be sick!”

“Not on the seats.”

“Thorin!”

“What?”

“There are motorbikes coming towards us, right in front of us!”

Thorin cursed, fixing his sharp eyes on them, and threw his cigarette butt out of the window as he mounted the pavement with an aggressive jerk of the car.

“Thorin, no, you can’t turn down here! It’s a market! It’s not for cars! It’s a—” Bilbo shut his eyes and buried his head in between his knees as Thorin turned into the marketplace. He covered his head with his arms and tried to ignore the crashes and screams, Thorin’s cursing and the incessant drone of the radio. “This is not subtle, Thorin!” He heard the snapping of wood and whooshing of cloth, Thorin’s aggravated breathing and what sounded like vegetables hitting the windscreen.

He stayed in his protective position for at least five minutes, determined not to look up, convinced that soon he would be waking up in his bed. He concentrated hard on the radio, trying to block out all else. I’ll wake up soon.

“Baggins,” came Thorin’s voice from what sounded like very far away when everything was quiet. “Look out of the window and see if they’re still following us.”

Bilbo groaned, deciding he’d rather stab his own foot than raise his head. He placed his hands on his knees and straightened his arms, forcefully pushing himself up. The roads were becoming quieter, and Bilbo guessed they had left the centre of London. He looked out of the back window, fearing the worst, but could see nothing except black night.

“There’s not even headlights,” he murmured, daring to hope that he was right. “I think you lost them.”

“Mm,” Thorin grunted. “Good.” He reached into his pocket, and commanded, “Call Kili,” as he threw his mobile phone into Bilbo’s lap. “Tell him to tell his brother to get them well out of here.”

With shaking fingers, Bilbo navigated through the phone, scrolling down the address book. “Kili isn’t here.”

“Oh yeah, his number is under Thing-2.”

Rolling his eyes, Bilbo scrolled downwards and pressed the dialling button on the instructed phone number. He held it to his ear and listened to the dull ringing three times before it was eventually answered with a worried-sounding voice: “Thorin?”

“Kili?”

“You don’t sound like Thorin.”

“You don’t sound like Kili.”

“It’s not Kili, it’s Fili.”

“And I’m Bilbo, Fili.” His brow furrowed. “Fili? Aren’t you driving?”

“No, Kili’s driving.”

“Kili’s driving?”

“Kili’s driving?!” Thorin roared, “why?”

“Thorin asks why is Kili driving.”

“We panicked,” Fili conceded. “Got in the car the wrong way round.”

“They panicked,” relayed Bilbo.

“Where are they?”

“Thorin asks where you are.”

“We’re uh heading towards a bridge.”

“They’re going towards a bridge, apparently. Fili sounds quite hesitant about it though.”

“Don’t tell Uncle Thorin that!” Fili cried indignantly.

“Ask them which bridge?”

“Thorin told me to ask you which bridge?”

“Uhm… the MillenniumBridge?”

“The MillenniumBridge?”

“The MillenniumBridge?! They can’t go there, it’s a footbridge!”

“We know!” shouted Kili’s voice from over the line.

“We’re trying to shake off these motorbikes, remember. And we are only in a Smart car,” Fili added, trying to sound reasonable.

“They said they are only in a Smart car,” Bilbo repeated.

 “Oh, we’re on the bridge now,” Fili told Bilbo, “whoa you should see these people run, it’s like the parting of the Red Sea. I don’t think that guy’s ever moved so fast. And oh look some woman just hit herself with her handbag, that wasn’t our fault. And a man just threw his shopping over the bridge.”

“That wasn’t our fault either,” Bilbo heard Kili say faintly.

“It may have been our fault though.”

“I’m not telling your uncle that.”

“Not telling your uncle what?” Thorin snapped.

“Have you seen the others?” Bilbo asked quickly. “Did you see if they’re safe?”

“We saw Dori, Nori and Ori went down a little road in their Mini,” Fili informed, “I only saw two people go after them, and Dori’s a good enough driver. They’ll be fine. Bombur’s driving Bofur’s Vauxhall Monterey, and you know how quick a driver he is, so I’m sure they’re already home and dry. I reckon the only problem they’ll be having is Bifur wanting to through himself at these masked maniacs for a fight. I haven’t seen Oin and Gloin, but they’re no doubt shouting at each other somewhere.”

“Everyone’s fine, apparently,” Bilbo summarised.

“Good. Tell them to get out of there,” Thorin instructed, jerking around a corner to avoid a set of red traffic lights. “They have guns.”

“Thorin says to get out of there because they have guns.”

“Guns? Really? Yeah, Bilbo says Thorin says they have guns. Have you seen any guns?”

Kili’s voice was barely audible over the phone line: “Well I haven’t really been looking, Fili, I’ve been trying not to run over pedestrians.”

“You didn’t seem to mind doing that during your driving tes— ow! No, eyes on the road!”

“You mean footbridge,” Bilbo corrected him.

“Fili, tell Kili to get out of there right now!” shouted Thorin, making Bilbo jump. “But don’t go home! Do you hear me?”

On the other end of the line, Fili repeated: “Thorin says not to go home.” Then, “Kili asks why not.”

“Fili says Kili asks why not.”

Thorin gritted his teeth. “Because I don’t want any of these maniacs tailing them to their mother’s house. The last thing I need is my sister in danger.”

Bilbo relayed the information.

“Alright,” replied Fili. “Tell Thorin we’ll go to the arranged meeting place. I’ll text everyone to get them to meet there once they’ve got no one up their arse.”

Bilbo mimicked the information, more politely.

“Fine.”

“Thorin says that’s fine.”

“Excellent. See you later, Bill.” He hung up before Bilbo could protest.

“That’s good of you,” Bilbo commented once he had set Thorin’s phone on the dashboard and set to looking around for any more Goblins.

“What is?”

“Wanting to keep your sister out of trouble.”

“Oh no, she can handle herself against any men,” Thorin shrugged, almost conversationally. “I’d just get in trouble if she found out her children were in danger.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Should’ve known it was too nice of a thing for you.”

Thorin bristled. “What do you mean?”

“Well you’ve put everyone in danger here, haven’t you?”

Thorin flinched. As Bilbo’s watched, his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. In the flashes of the passing streetlights, Bilbo could see his face was set and stony, eyes fixed on a point in front of him.

Bugger.

Silence descended in the Chevrolet Impala, thick and palpable. Bilbo almost wished that they were being chased by motorbikes again, if just to disturb the quiet.

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmured after a few moments. He intertwined his fingers, concentrating as he shifted them restlessly. “Look, I… I didn’t—”

Bilbo’s words were lost as the wind was knocked out of him. For a moment he was sure Thorin had punched him; then came the ringing in his ears, the squeal of metal on metal, the crunch of a car which would have to be written off. The only thing he knew was that his head was pounding, there was glass on his lap and Bilbo’s side of the car was wrapped around a lamp post.

“My baby!” came Thorin’s voice from somewhere very far away.

Bilbo tried to reply but his tongue felt like it was full of needles, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He tried to move, tried to see, but nothing seemed to work.

“Baggins, come on!” came the voice through the haze. “Baggins!”

He saw everything that had just happened in his head as though repeating in slow motion: the motorbike slipping out of a side street; the shot slicing through the wheel of the Impala like a pair of jaws; Thorin’s face as he lost control of the car, its wheels spinning; him turning the wheel to the left out of instinct; the smash as the car hit the lamp post and the snarl of the motorbike as it circled the Impala like a shark around blood.

“Baggins!”

He was only just aware of a pair of hands gripping his shoulders tightly, dragging him across the front seat of the car and out of the driver’s door. He was set down on his legs, but even as he stood on them they felt like nothing but white noise.

“Run, Baggins! Run!”

He felt himself being pushed and his legs started working of their own accord, carrying him somewhere away from the glow of the street lamp, the car wreckage. He felt glass cutting into his thighs but didn’t stop. His lungs were screaming, his vision still clouded.

Run, Baggins.

"Tom," Benedict finally managed to look up to the man, hand still clutching his lover's tightly as if he was trying to wake her up from her unneeded trance. "Tom," he called out again. He has no intention to stop the man for mourning about his sister but this was not the best time. There's an issue waiting for both of them to handle which cannot be ignored any longer. This is one of the sacrifice that they have to make as an agent. Their little lives means nothing at all.

"Then you go," Tom replied, blue eyes still fixated at his adopted sister's lifeless body. "You can handle it without me." The man would not let go of her, like Benedict, Lee and Ben, he was not prepare for this. It was not long ago that she called him a favour, asking him to prepare dinner to celebrate her return from her mission. Voice as sweet as thunder, she demanded it and threaten to spill out Tom's secret where he planted a virus in the HQ's webpage as a joke and caused a fuzz for 3 days. It was horrible but most of them took it as a well planned joke except for their Director who demanded to catch the culprit out for severe 'detention'. It took Tom and his fellow team and his sister to crack on the second day, fixing it by the next morning. It was no biggy but it will still be something of an issue that the Director would not let go.

How Tom had wished that he was the one who took her back from their airport, how he personally send her back to her apartment and make sure everything was alright before leaving to work with Benedict. Yet fate has decided for she has to die alone, in the apartment, bruised and beaten. The images of her laying on the floor, dying slowly without anyone to her aid has killed his soul, nearly driving him to madness as soon as he got the news from an agent while he was there, with his might be brother-in-law, trying to figure out a case that dragged the entire agency's precious time. There were no right words to describe his emotion. The only thing that he wanted to do right then was to be alone with his precious sibling, and perhaps quitting this job for there's no reason left for him to stay.

Benedict understood it well. Yet as the leader of the team, he had to pick them up. Ben and Lee apparently were taking it well, leaving the room to God knows where. Well, at least they were not pouring their eyes out like Tom, making it even harder to control his team. The ginger haired man walked towards the man, patting his shoulder, forcing his well kept emotion back. From this view, he saw more hidden bruises and even deeper cuts of knife on her porcelain flesh. On those he caressed every night that they were together, kissing every inch of it as if it was his and only his, the smell of her sweet rose perfume lingered every minute of the day... Benedict could not help but to choked out his words, bitterly, "Tom, we need to leave her for now. There's something- There's- There's something far more important to do now. And you know the Director will handle this well. There's nothing we can do for now-"

Without any warming, Tom pounced against the taller man, slammed his head onto the solid glass wall, tugging on to his clock's collars, teeth baring white. Benedict could have beaten up the younger man there and there but those eyes glaring at him, there was no anger but sadness, "HOW CAN YOU SAY THIS TO ME? YOU ARE HER LOVER AND I AM HER BROTHER! ALTHOUGH WE ARE NOT FROM THE SAME BLOODLINE BUT AT LEAST I LOVE HER AS MUCH AS YOU DO." The man punched the side, closely to the Benedict's cheek, cracking the glass and his own fist. "PERHAPS I WAS WRONG, YOU HAVE NEVER LOVED HER! HOW-" Benedict can handle any bash from Tom but not that. He has loved Elizabeth far too much, he would leave MI6 for her, eloped somewhere far that no agents or enemies can find them both. He would willing to sacrifice his chance to become the future Director just to live the rest of his life with Elizabeth. He even wanted to propose to her after completing the current mission that he has been given by the agency.

He all the might he can muster, he threw Tom across the room, crashing his back first onto the solid cold ground and with it the apparatus that placed on the nearby table where he tried to hold himself up but ended up pouring like their shattering souls onto the floor. There were a moment of silence, pains were literally radiating from their heart, engulfing the room as they held onto each other's eyes, asking for forgiveness. There was nothing they could do for now but to help each other out from their sorrow and allow everything to flow back to its own course. Her death will be haunting them all till their last breath of life.

"Let us go to the Director and ask permission to be in the team to investigate her death," Benedict suggested, pulling his comrade up to his feet, tilting his head a little just to get another glimpse of the lady, "I will push hard to get his permission, for all of us. Will that do?"