ACTION TIME

[aphelionix]

The two days had come and gone since Locke stayed over at Weiler's. He was tipsy when Weiler had called that night and made their two day check-in rule - not that he forgot, but he couldn't stop the nagging feeling that something was off when he went to bed that night.

On the morning of the third day, he remembered.

The rule was to get out. He tried calling Weiler once, in case he had forgotten his own rule, but Locke was sure by now that it wasn't like him. It was all the sign he needed when the call went straight to voice mail. He headed right out the door of his room, only gathering his pistol and communicator. Through the bustling of the soldiers' morning routines, he managed to keep himself fairly blended in. No one seemed to be looking on him any differently. Locke was on the last stretch of the emergency escape route of Gladsheim's base - for Circle members, that was - when someone called his name.

His real name.

Comments

[tactician]

There was a mild flare of alarm when Locke faltered in his step, a hand instinctively raising to the pillar to steady the two of them.

"Now, now, don't say that like I'm about to die on you, Herr Cupid," Weiler laughed, but there was a hitch to the sound of it, as though the idea might have scared him a little more than one would think. He began to fidget in Locke's grip, making up for Locke's faltering strength with a burst of his own as he wriggled out of the soldier's hold and shakily on to the ground. He muttered, "I've got a well-paid retirement plan that I still have to cash out on."

He motioned for Locke to step back with two fingers and then peeked around the pillar at what remained in their way - a gaggle of soldiers, more men than he had bullets, and all of them armed. The only advantage they had was that they hadn't been detected yet, but the number of disadvantages facing them was much more staggering in number, the most important of which was still shooting discomfort up his spine as he leaned against the metal column.

"How fast can you get in for close quarters combat, if I distract enough of them?" Weiler asked with surprising mettle when his neck was on the line.

[aphelionix]

Locke gave another glance around the corner.

"Fast enough," he confirmed, not without a concerned look at Weiler's back. The red had deepened in color, but the flow of blood was lessening. "If protocol's being followed, there should be someone waiting in the leftmost ship to take us."

[tactician]

Slowly but steadily, Weiler aimed his gun and steadied his injured hand against the pillar. The recoil wouldn't be pleasant on his fingers, but there were more important things at stake here.

God, when he got out of here he was taking a vacation for a month.

"On your count."

[aphelionix]

"One..." Locke steadied himself on the other side of the column. "Two..." Deep breath, and- "Three."

[tactician]

If he had counted correctly, he had enough bullets left in the clip to incapacitate about two-thirds of the soldiers, but that was only if his aim was perfect (unlikely) and only if every shot he made was enough to stop a man from resisting altogether (equally unlikely, given that these were all trained soldiers). The odds, regardless of which way it was calculated, could not possibly work out in their favor, but a small chance was better than no chance, so Weiler took a breath, closed one eye and took his shots.

[aphelionix]

Locke dashed out from the column, and with the soldiers distracted by something from the front of their vision, it was easy to miss something coming at them from the side. The first soldier he caught off guard completely, disarming and knocking him out with a well-aimed knee to the gut and elbow to the back of the head. After that, the rest became easy, having stolen the gun off him. He fired at the remaining men that Weiler either missed or ran out of ammo on. One turned on Locke instead of the decoy upon realizing the commotion was behind him.

He fired at Locke, but soon after, the soldier collapsed. That was all of them. One of them must have signaled the alarms before being incapacitated, though; the red beacons started flashing with a rather irritating beeping noise. Within a couple minutes there'd be more reinforcements, and the hangar doors would be closed.

"Weiler! Let's go!"

[tactician]

"Easy for you to say," Weiler griped, having discarded his useless gun in favor of picking up one of the discarded weapons from the felled soldiers. It was difficult on his back and it showed in the ginger way he moved at all, looking slightly light-headed when he stood back up. The blood loss might have been getting to him after that adrenaline high. "Give me a hand."

[aphelionix]

Locke looped his arm under Weiler's shoulders this time, frowning at his condition. Just a few more yards and he could patch him up. Locke didn't make it out of the scuffle unscathed, but he seemed to be ignoring his own bleeding leg in favor of getting the hell out.

The overhead speakers were blaring about emergencies and code whatnots, but Locke didn't really listen as he dragged the two of them toward the ship. It was moderate size, made for space travel - it'd get them to the Circle's quarter point, a rather large space vessel, where they could receive better medical care and get some rest before going to the Circle's actual station.

On board were several other agents, all beat up themselves. (That explained why didn't come to help them out.) Gladsheim sure didn't make it easy for them to escape. Locke was sure a few didn't make it.

The door sealed shut behind them. "Took you long enough," said the pilot at the front, tucking his helmet on. "Let's get the hell out of here."

[tactician]

"Please," Weiler whispered to himself on the end of a relieved but struggling sigh. He seemed to relax marginally once the ship door slid shut with an air vacuum hiss, the rumbling of their environment telling them that the ship was already being lifted into the air and off the ground, severing the last of their connections to the military base. None of them were entirely relaxed, though - there was still a successful flight to take care of, but that was out of Weiler's hands.

Plus, now that he had a place to rest, fatigue and exhaustion were beginning to take effect. Gladsheim wasn't famous for its kindness, after all - the people who had held him and the rest of the captives in custody hadn't allowed them to sleep, constantly drilling them for answers they weren't willing to give. Even when they gave up on getting them to speak, the occasional and irregular clamor they caused deprived them of rest. When had been the last time he had really slept?

He found his head lolling back onto his seat; his neck barely felt strong enough to hold it up. "Months and months of vacation," he murmured to himself.

[aphelionix]

Locke didn't sit down right away, instead grabbing one of the medical packs off the wall. They were supposed to strap in for take-off, but he knew it'd be a good minute or two before the rough escape out of atmo anyway - and that wasn't even counting if Gladsheim opened fire on the craft.

"Turn around," Locke instructed, opening the pack.

[tactician]

Weiler only cracked open one eye at Locke, laughing under his breath. "Oh, Herr Locke, not in public."

[aphelionix]

"Shut up," he said with a tired laugh.

[tactician]

"I mean it," Weiler answered with a weary smile of his own. He pushed down the hand with the supplies. "Wait until we're out of range, or we might end up wasting time and resources."

[aphelionix]

Locke didn't answer that, but he still tossed a sanitized cloth, sealed in a bag, onto Weiler's lap. He buckled in after, leaning his head back against the padded wall. The ship was already off the runway, almost out of the base's territory.

"As least press that on it. Or I will."

[tactician]

Weiler picked up the cloth lethargically, looking none too enthusiastic about the idea of pushing against an already-sensitive wound. "My back's against the seat," he argued, handing it back. "My hand'll get squished during takeoff."

[aphelionix]

"Squish it between you and the seat then," he said, pushing it back towards him.

[tactician]

Weiler narrowed one eye, clearly weighing the option of resisting or not in his head before finally succumb with a deep-seated sigh. Awkwardly and not without difficulty, he pulled the back end of his ruined dress shirt up and wedged the cloth against his skin, cursing quietly in German as it touched the wound.

[aphelionix]

"It should numb it a little after a few minutes," he said, satisfied. Locke finally allowed himself to relax, facing forward. His own exhaustion had come back around again, and the pain of his injuries with it. It registered then that a bullet had glanced his knee, and he clamped a hand over it, becoming rather guilty himself of ignoring wounds.

The ship started shaking as it hit the border of the atmosphere and they gained speed. The pilot came on overhead.

"All right, crew. Almost off Gladsheim and I'm not detecting any followers. Hang on tight."

[tactician]

A sanitized cloth hit Locke in the face, the clean half ripped off from Weiler's end.

"Here, Kettle."

[aphelionix]

Locke flinched, having been rather focused on ignoring the pain. He frowned at Weiler, plucking the cloth off his lap where it fell. He stuck it onto his own wound.

"Thanks, Pot."

[tactician]

True to his nature, Weiler only answered with a blown kiss, but even his energy was flagging for that - he fell back and closed his eyes shortly after.

A hand did reach out and latch itself around Locke's elbow, however. It simply stayed there, neither forcibly moving it nor letting go.

[aphelionix]

It wasn't until Locke looked at Weiler's hand, and back up, that he realized there was a hard stare coming from one of the more conscious agents. Locke ignored it, even if he still quickly turned his glance elsewhere.

By the time they were out of the atmosphere, Locke had fallen asleep anyway, his hand overlapping Weiler's.