| Subject: For Want Of A Nail, A Hammer And A Hand, The Ability And The Opportunity |
Author:
warren
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Date Posted: Wednesday, September 28, 12:47:46am
This is set ten years after nikita took over section. Age the characters the way you want to see them unless otherwise sstated.
The sun glinted off the fuselage of the Airbus-a300 as it came into land. Sometimes the sun still reflected off the windows into Jasmine's eyes as it taxied up to where she was waiting. She and four other operatives were dressed as paramedics. Two of them were actually paramedics before they were in Section. One other was dressed as though he was an FBI agent. As the plane stopped about fifty metres away, she and the other operatives became ready. They let the dozen police and other FBI agents go in first, up the mobile stairway that was moved next to the plane within seconds of it stopping. A minute later two police came down the stairs carrying a wounded man. One of the operatives took a gurney over to them and the man was placed on it. He had a wound on the left side of his neck. It had bled a lot but had stopped because of a towel and a piece of cloth that was draped over his shoulder. He was conscious and speaking softly. `Brothers in blood' is what he said. And then every five seconds or so after that. "Brothers in blood" "Brothers in blood." The operative gave him an injection and he stopped and his body relaxed and then two of the paramedics took him to another waiting ambulance. The FBI operative followed, helped put the injured man into the ambulance, and returned with the gurney. When he was close enough he signalled to Jasmine that it would be okay.
Two more police came down with guns drawn covering a man between them. Unlike the other man, he was quiet. His hands and arms were covered in dried blood. They took him straight to a waiting police van and were about to put him in the back of it. Just then a voice came from the top of the stairway.
"Don't put them together. Don't let them touch each other", a young man shouted.
Jasmine saw that he was about 175 centimetres tall. About 18 or 19 years of age. He had the look of a younger boy but Jasmine could see that he may not have reached his growth properly yet. Dark hair, slim build, the pale dark skin of a half-caste person from European and Far-Eastern mixed descent. He reached the bottom of the stairs, shouted again, "Don't let them touch. Take them separately."
Jasmine walked over to him and said, "It's okay. It's okay. We'll look after you now. I am sure the police won't let them touch." The man with bloodied arms was placed in the police van.
Another wounded man was being carried down the stairs. The operative dressed as the FBI agent and the two paramedic operatives went to get him with the gurney. He also had a wound in the neck. Jasmine could see that the wound was a long cut. A lot of blood had seeped through the towel that was used as a bandage. The medics put him in the ambulance with the young boy. The young man looked outside just as Jasmine was shutting the door.
"Tell the police not to let them touch. I don't know why, but it's not safe. I hope they know that."
"Yes, I am positive they know that it's not safe." She paused. Then continued, "The questions are `Who are you?' and `How did you know that?'" The boy felt the needle go into his upper arm. He knew he needed rest. He hoped this would do it.
-=-=-=
Nikita stood in the centre of the room. The main wall she faced was a wall of plasma screens. Four across and four down. The centre four had been replaced with one large one. Only a few times over the last ten years had every screen had the face of Section leaders on it at the same time. Now only three or four screens were used at maximum. Not because the times had changed. There was still enough terrorism and other evils in the world to worry about. Three or four screens were used because the leaders in Section had changed. There were no more back-stabbing and power games. No more George and Operations type people. Only those people that knew the job and did it well were the leaders now. Well enough to do it without checking with her all the time. Sure, there were updates and missions that used three or four Sections, but never again, she hoped, would all of them need to be filled. She remembered the last ten years after she had taken over Section. Ten years. A long time. Too long to remember. Not long enough to forget.
She remembered her father dying at the bridge. Michael taking Adam away with him. The World Trade Centre. All the screens filled with Section and substation heads. Michael coming back to Section. Her decision to bring all the Sections under one person's main control. It was supposed to be a temporary measure but no-one else had come along to take her place. Except Michael. Now they run the Sections together. Then she renamed the Sections after the major city near them or the country they were in. Or in the case of SouthEast Asia, the area. She remembered the War on Terror. And then the public end to the War on Terror. Now it's not public anymore. It's like it was before Iraq. Not public, but still happening.
Section's problem now was the numbers. Since the public end to the War on Terror, personnel from the marines and all the armed forces had wanted to join Section. These soldiers knew that there are always secret projects and organisations that work against terror. Most had put the word out that they wanted to continue the fight. Thousands of them had spread the word in some way. The Sections did take a look at a lot of them. Some were too gung-ho, too mercernary, too eager to kill for killing's sake. Some were sent back to the forces. Some were sent home. Most were kept as Section operatives. Their families back home were told they were either killed or missing in action. The problem was the numbers within the numbers. Not enough leaders were coming through. Sure, the Sections now had the most numbers of low level operatives and abeyance operatives, but not many wanted to go above those levels. Section needed more of those that would fight if they had to, even if they were at home doing the normal things she hardly ever dreamed of now. More people like she was ten years ago. Or even fifteen years ago.
One of the screens came on. Jerome, the young man in charge of what was once called Section Four. Then it became Section Europe. Now it is called Section Stockholm.
She said, "Yes, Jerome."
"Nikita, I have news on the Rome plane crash. It was also a terrorist attack. Just like the one near Cairo and the other en route to Istanbul. It's a telecast from a videophone. It was sent straight to Interpol from someone on board. Probably from a marshal on that flight. I'll relay it now."
The screen changed to show an aeroplane cabin. There were four rows of seats in front of the camera. Two men were standing together. Doing nothing except standing, drinking water or wine from plastic cups. One of them took a phone out of his pocket. Just after he did, the alarm on it went off. He suddenly cracked his cup on the metal of the fuselage. The other put his on the ground and trod on it. Shattering the plastic into pieces. One said loudly, "We are two brothers of blood. Praise to the brotherhood." And then they both cut their arms and wrists open and then went towards each other.
The picture moved violently. It looked like the person with the phone had moved towards the men. As he did so the camera showed a row of windows to the side. There was a bright light and a sound of an explosion. And then the picture showed the sunset and the sky, except it was from outside the plane. Nikita thought it would have been a prize-winning picture except for that she knew what happened. Somehow there was an explosion and the camera and probably the man had been sucked out of a hole in the plane. The picture moved one hundred and eighty degrees to show the plane. Smoke was coming from just behind the front door on the left. A voice came from the screen. The man was still alive. She heard the voice through the sound of rushing air.
"Nothing I can do now except hope that this got through to Interpol. Did the men themselves explode? Or something they had? I think it was the men themselves. Hope this helps in any investigation." Focusing on the plane again the picture showed it falling towards the ground. It was travelling faster than the man because of the engines adding to the speed of descent. It would hit first. It did. The man said, "Goodbye, Allie." Nikita watched as the screen showed where the plane hit. The bottom of the screen showed the ground getting closer. On the horizon, it showed the smoke from the crash. Then no picture.
Nikita didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say. A man, a brave man had sense enough to film the event. He then showed courage to go for the men without knowing what was happening. He then showed even more courage and willingness to help others that he suggested as to what happened and also filmed the plane's crash. A brave man.
More men like him are needed Nikita thought.
"Nikita!" It was Jerome. "Yes, it got to us like that as well. And before you ask, we have speech experts working out whether he said Allie, or Ellie or any variation on that word. If it is someone in his family or someone he knows they will be provided for. We suspect that this is maybe what happened to the other flights as well. I have heard of four so far. Rome, Istanbul, Cairo and New York. All happened within minutes of each other. All flights originated in London. We have not heard of any others. I am sure we would have heard if there was. But there may have been unreported ones we haven't heard of yet or even those that didn't even eventuate for some reason. These were coordinated events. Nikita, I have heard of bombs being inserted into people, but this looks like nothing happened until the men's blood mixed. Somehow these terrorists became living bombs that exploded when they come in contact with each other.
-=-=-=-
Andrew woke up. He was sitting in a chair. A metal chair. An uncomfortable, metal chair. He looked around the room. The tiles were a white colour. Not a bright white but a nice easy-on-the-eye white. Almost a beautiful white. He looked down at the chair. A silver metal. Not the shiny chrome colour, a nice shiny silver. Almost as beautiful a colour as the room was. He saw that the chair was used for prisoners of some type. Why else would there be parts of the chair's arms that looked like they fit around the wrists. He quickly moved his arms up off the chair's arms. Out of the way. He looked down at the feet of the chair. Yes, there were restraints there as well. He got up quickly. No way would he sit down in that chair again. He thought, "If someone wants to put me in this chair, they'll do it by force."
The door opened with a sound like one he had never heard before. A metallic sound. A metal whirr-click-swoosh sound. He didn't like the sound of it. And said so to the woman that came into the off-white room.
"Neither do I," said the blond woman as she walked in. Limping, but carrying a walking stick. Just over average height, late twenties, early thirties. Blond hair cut page-boy style. A roundish face. Big blue eyes. He liked her the second he saw her. His mother had that colour eyes. For some reason he trusted blue-eyed people more than anybody else. And she was pregnant. Nine months pregnant.
"Hello, Andrew, I am Claire Hammett. I am here to find out what happened on the plane a few hours ago, who you are, what you did, and how you knew about the blood."
He was standing in front of the chair. As she spoke she had walked around the chair once this she walked around him amd the chair twice. If he were sitting down it would have intimidated him. "Maybe you should sit down", he said to her. "No, thank you, Andrew. I am okay. Thank you for the offer. It shows where your heart is." She stopped in front of him and looked straight at him. "Now what can you tell us. The events first. Then a personal history."
Andrew stood still and related the events of that afternoon.
"Well, on the plane, these two guys stood up. Darkish skin, darker than mine, so probably from the MidEast or Northern Africa. One in each aisle of the plane. They started walking up to the front. I thought it looked strange that two guys would get up at the same instant and walk at the same time to the front. I wasn't the only one. A guy a two seats in front of me tensed."
"Tensed as in how?" Claire asked.
Andrew started walking slowly round the room now. "Like he was ready to jump. My judo teacher years ago taught me that. To watch for people's muscles tensing to see which way they would move. This man's whole body tensed. I knew he was ready to in any direction. When the two guys started walking towards the front I saw his muscles tense more. He was ready to do something. The two guys each held a plastic cup. Those plastic drink glasses they give you on planes. Then an alarm went off. One of the guys reached into his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone. He cancelled the alarm and put it back. And that's when everything happened."
He stopped for a second.
"Go on Andrew. It's very helpful"
Andrew thought, "Why isn't she taking notes?" Then he immediately thought, "Because there would be cameras filming us and someone watching at the same time. The cameras recording for viewing later on, and someone watching now for any immediate responses and reactions."
He continued, "They smashed the glasses against the side of the plane. Both at the same time. Then they started to dig the sharp edges into their own arms and wrists. They guy that was tensing moved. Fast. Very fast. He stood up, pulled some sort of gun out of his pocket and moved towards them. He shouted, `Stop! Stay still! Air marshal!' The two guys looked at him. Stopped for a second and then one said, `We are brothers of blood', and moved towards each other. As they moved he shot one of them. It must have been some sort of paintball pellet. It hit him and a pale green liquid splattered over his neck and shoulder. Then the blood started to flow from a wound in his neck. What was that?"
He didn't expect an answer but Claire answered, "It's a pellet with some skin acid and metal flakes that go into a person's body and make them bleed. But the pellet would only splatter on the fuselage, not put a hole in it. So one of them was hit. What happened next?"
"The one that wasn't hit ran to the marshal. Stabbed him in the neck with the broken cup and he fell down to the floor. The one that was shot, screamed to the other, `Now, brother, while my blood flows freely. Now, my brother!' He was leaning against the side of the plane. The man with the bloodied hands stretched them out and went to touch him with them. That's when I did what I did."
"And what did you do, Andrew?"
"I don't really know. Andrenalin must have pumped into my body. I somehow grabbed a blanket and must have jumped or climbed over the four rows of seats to get to the man with the blood on his hands. I threw the blanket over his head to land on his hands and then tripped him over from behind. After he fell and was on the floor, other passengers jumped onto both of the men. They put blankets and towels over the wounds, some even did first aid to them. But with all of the passengers watching them they weren't getting close to each other. That was about an hour before landing so I just sat down and rested for that hour until landing in New York. That's all for now. Hope it helps. I can go into more detail later. But right now, I am hungry. I need to eat something. And can someone contact my parents in England.
"You can, Andrew. More detail tomorrow after you have rested and slept well. So how do we contact your father?" Claire already knew from the DNA samples taken at the airport who he was but still wanted him to feel comfortable in answering.
"He's Nicholas Hattersley, a diplomat at the European Community Commission. It's early morning now in England so you should get him at home. Him or my step-mother Michelle." He gave Claire a phone number.
"Thank you, Andrew. You have been a big help. And now I will take up the offer of the chair. Can you shout out for some medics to come here. I am going into labour."
-=-=-=-=-
Michael was in the Perch. He was thinking about how Operations used to stand here and try to control the world. He was only tempted once since he came into Section. That was when Operations had to go to Center and he had command for that time. It would have been easy to take over then. But he didn't. After that he had command but not the desire to control. Michael was wearing black pants and shoes. A grey shirt. No tie or jacket. It would remind those that knew Operations of the way he used to dress. Like a businessman. He didn't want to bring back those memories. Not to anyone. Everyone has their own style. A screen came on. It was Trent from Section New York.
"Yes, Trent, what is it?"
"It's about the boy from the attack on the New York plane. You need an update?"
"No, I already have the main points. A marshal and a young man stopped the blood-mixing terrorists from touching. The marshal was wounded and the boy was taken by Section for questioning. Is it about him? Was he wounded as well? Has he given us any more information?"
"Michael, when Jasmine sedated him at the airport, she also took a DNA sample. We matched him."
"That is good, Trent."
"In a way it is. Another way it isn't. I'll show you."
Trent's picture change to show the boy sitting at a table in the white room. Drinking a glass of water.
"Michael stared. Then said, surprised, "Andrew?"
=-=-=-=-==-=
Nikita was eating at the table when Michael walked went in. She was wearing a blue T-shirt. Same colour as her eyes. He could see through the glass-topped table that she was wearing charcoal-grey pants and dark shoes.
"Nikita. We have to talk about Andrew."
"What about him. We left him in London last week. He is flying to see his friends in America next week over the university break. Has that changed?"
"Yes, he left earlier than expected."
Nikita knew then that Michael was going to say that his son, Andrew was the young man on the New York flight. Which meant Andrew was in Section. He couldn't be. They had spent the last ten years keeping that life away from him. After his mother died, and then seeing Operations get killed, he had seemed to shrink into himself. Michael had taken him away to England and changed their names. The boy had recovered and hopefully forgotten. After the World Trade Centre attacks, Michael had come back to Section but had left his son in England. He didn't want him growing up around the things that he might see. Once was enough. He and Nikita made up the false identities of Nicholas and Michelle Hattersley, a diplomat and his secretary-wife, and then sent him off to private schools and visited him in London during the school's breaks.
"How could this happen, Michael?"
"I don't know. Nikita. Why would he be a hero? We must find out. Somehow protect him. He is being brought here."
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Andrew woke up on lying on his back. He didn't know how long he slept. It felt like six or seven hours, but could have been more. He wasn't really bothered. He knew some sort of secret group or organisation but one that was on the side of his beliefs was holding him. Good beliefs. He remembered something like this from when he was very young but then dismissed it right away. Memories don't count. What is happening at this instant counts. He rolled to his side and looked around the room. Same room as before. The big metal chair had been taken away when he had the food. They had brought in a table and a normal chair. Now it was pushed over to the edge of the round room. A ninety-degree angle on the left viewed from the door. Another chair was added. The bed he was on was directly opposite the door. He rolled into his back again. Closed his eyes and relaxed. Nothing to do but wait.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Nikita and Michael were at the briefing table. Jason and Kate Crawford walked in together. They sat down next to each other. The other five seats filled with other Level Five operatives from the Section. Behind Nikita and Michael was another bank of sixteen screens like the one that was upstairs. Eight of the twelve smaller screens had faces in them. The big one in the centre showed Michael.
He said, "We have received intel from the medical personnel looking at what was in the blood of these terrorists in New York. It is a mixture of liquid plastic explosive and pure sodium and pure potassium. After testing they have found out that each person's blood is set off by a catalyst in another person's. It was tested about twenty years ago in Iraq with different types of liquid. Somehow someone has put these catalysts into people's blood. It is unknown how many different types of catalysts there are. Whether one catalyst only affects one other is an unknown factor."
Kate interrupted. She had an earpiece on. She spoke. "Michael, some new intel has just come in. There was another two planes. Same destination of Tokyo. Two different flights. Both from London at approximately the same time as the others. At the time of the other attacks they were over the North Pole. The authorities thought nothing of it until word reached them just an hour ago. There were incidents on both flights just like the others. Two people stood up. Cut themselves and touched. No explosions though. They are being held by the Japanese authorities. I'll contact Sho-Yu at Tokyo. Get them transferred to the Section there."
Michael spoke, "So maybe it does only affect one other catalyst. Get the medical department on it as well."
"Yes, Michael."
"And as you have heard by now, the young man that helped stop the attack on the New York flight is Andrew, my son. He has been brought here. Here to Section Paris. He was here ten years ago when he was younger. I didn't want him to come here ever again. Children should never be brought into Section."
Jason and Kate looked at each other. Kate thought, "Children should never be brought into Section. Not brought into, but born in to. Like Jason and his twin brother were. Like their daughter Jessie was. Like the Hammett's new son Pegar was. Just hours ago. Like so many others. Except for the one that is in the white room now."
-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The door opened with that whirr-click-whoosh sound he had been hearing many times now. This time it sounded slightly different though. In came his father and stepmother. He got up and ran to them as the door shut behind them. Whirr-click-whoosh-bam. Yep. Definitely a different sound, that time. He gave his stepmother a big hug as well.
"Am I glad that they went to get you. How did they find you? How long did it take to find me? Were you worried?"
Nikita answered, "Andrew, we didn't know you had gone. You weren't supposed to leave until next week. What sort of thing have you gotten into? Are they treating you all right here? Wherever here is?"
Andrew looked at her. She asked the right questions. She didn't seem worried though. As though she knew where here was. His father said nothing. He was just staring at Andrew.
Then he spoke.
"Nikita," Michael said. "It doesn't matter. We must tell him now."
Michael looked at Andrew. "Adam." He stopped speaking.
Adam's face had showed recognition. He knew that name from when he was younger. He had heard that same voice say it many times before. He asked, "Was I moved to Paris while I was asleep?"
"Yes, Adam, you were. You are in an anti-terrorist organisation known as Section. This is where you will live from now on. This is where you will train. This is where you will learn to fight."
Michael signalled to Nikita and turned around. As they turned the door opened. Whirr-slick-whoosh.
Adam knew Judo and other martial arts. He shouted, "I know how to fight!" and moved to hit Michael.
Michael turned back blocked his arm without even thinking.
"When you do attack from behind. Go for the kidneys."
He turned again and kleft the room.
Nikita followed.
As she left she said, "Your training starts tomorrow at five AM."
==============================
This story is set ten years after Nikita took over Section. Age the characters you would have them age.
As it may also be the first season of Adam/Andrew in Section, It may also be called 'Blood'
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