It's a Slow Fire of Sorts: Part I

Mission Impossible

Half of the plan goes to crap within the first hour.

Brunnhilde wants to strangle herself for her optimism. The alcohol part doesn't work, which sucks, because parts B, C, and D were kind of hinging upon it working.

"Have any Aakon ale?"

"We've got M'carty's. Some Sakaar PA and Sneeper oil... fresh out of Aakon."

"Nice try," the Aid had said. "He's got enough of the rest."

So now, Brunnhilde is relying on good old fashioned breaking and entering, which should be easy enough, considering she literally works here. Trek is off collecting a hundred speakers, purely because Brunnhilde doesn't want him to die and scrapping up radio parts seemed like a good way to keep him distracted. Ten-Ten and 701 got in fine, blending in with the rest of the guards. The D'Rillians managed to sneak through the top entrances, 'Here to inspect those 202 half- engines,' or some bullshit, which means everyone's get-away is secured, and Marks is almost in the clear.

He and the hired Telri 'slave' are walking straight in through the front doors.

"Got a contender," Marks explains. His voice is gravelly through the comms. "Grandson of the late Shiaku Loreen. King of the Telrian empire and prized champion for the Sluieth sect."

"Enough with the complicated lore," Brunnhilde hisses.

"I'm getting into character," Marks whispers back.

"I'm worth at least half a million," the Telri interjects. "Your set price is doing wonders to my self-esteem."

He's eventually ushered inside. With the codes taken care of, all that's left is Brunnhilde. "Sorry," she tells Sal. "Looks like the direct access thing is a bust. I'll have to do it the hard way."

"Eh, stealing an access card shouldn't be that difficult, and I bet there's at least one person down there willing to riot."

Brunnhilde takes the rope from his hand and swings it over her shoulder. Sal is a small, middle aged man with soft hands and an even softer voice. If he goes into the palace against regulation, he isn't coming out, so she relieves him of his duty.

"I guess this is goodbye, then."

He smiles. "Go do something that matters. Start living again... maybe see the Universe or something-" and Brunnhilde rolls her eyes.

"That's the dumbest cliche hero speech I've ever heard," but she doesn't leave. Not yet. She takes another look at him; tries to memorize his mustache... his hair, his nose. That goddamned beer-stained towel on his shoulder and the optimistic twinkle in his eye.

"Tell her bye for me," he murmurs, wringing his hands. "And send me word someday, alright? Lemme know how both of you do?"

Brunnhilde swallows.

She doesn't respond. If she tries to respond, she'll cry. She'll get all soggy and whiny, and Brunnhilde can't afford to leak from her eyes right now. So instead, she burns the rest of the feeling into her memory: she catalogs the heaviness taking root in her heart, the salty taste of Gurin on her lips, and the dull, twinging ache radiating from her neck...

She takes a deep breath.

She grinds the rope between her fingers.

Then, with one final promise to herself- Never forget him. Never look back- Brunnhilde runs. She takes off across the upper levels, rushing past all the idiotic people and meaningless statues until her headache comes back. The sweat trickles down along the edges of her uniform. It's damp and miserable under her arms, but she keeps going; stumbles faster and faster. Down the stairs, through the servant's entrance, up into the main bar... it isn't until she's safely in front of the weapons arena that she finally stops.