04

The News of Laudo's bombing was accompanied by numerous theories. One presumed that Layan was behind it, trying to gain the President's attention. The bombing, did in fact fill Millian's thoughts. It was his hometown after all. His beloved sanctuary. But Layan was not behind it.

Another theory, Don's personal favorite, said that Sidapa was responsible. She was said to have threatened the police with Laudo's bombing earlier that day. Don can't help but scoff at that. Still, the National Police are conducting a search, as Sidapa had also threatened Kaptan and Magwayen.

The theory Don least fancies is the one that accuses Manaul. All because of several witness accounts of a blue-haired lad half an hour prior to the bombing. Some suspect that the lad was actually Bakunawa: Manaul's feared leader.

What a shame for it to be true.

Icamen's doing a good job so far, keeping her mouth shut. Although her presence alone screams 'I told you so' all the way from the sofa. The sofa is far across the penthouse, but from his mattress, Don can still feel her gloating. He doesn't even need to look.

He would try defending himself, but that would mean actually acknowledging his mistake, so belay that. He's got worse things to worry about anyway.

Don buries his face in his pillow, muffling a frustrated groan. He considers standing up again to check the locks, but he's already done that twice. All the windows are bullet proof. He's made sure of that too, five of his bullets already used up. Icamen is monitoring the security cameras, and if he hovers over her, she'd get the impression that he was... paranoid-- Which is ridiculous! He's not paranoid about getting his head chopped off by a mysterious squad no one knows about. Not at all!

His fist clenches on the bedsheets, then loosens its grip. I'm being inane, he thinks.

Don rolls on his back and whips out his phone, ready to use General's Conflict, when he sees a notification from one of his accounts. Curious, he opens it. He sees which email address had sent a message. Idiots! he thinks. But still, it stared back at him. The topic was "URGENT". Why?

He scrolled down to view the text.

"Print it out."

That was all it read. Under the words was an attachment that, upon tapping, redirected to a receipt of a fully-paid ship ticket from Laudo to Kaptan. "That's unthinkable," Don mutters. And yet despite his financial success, he's never personally been to the capital. His mind lingers on the issue longer than it should.

"You know corruption is still frowned upon, even among criminal organizations," Icamen's voice rings loudly from across the room.

Don turns his phone off. Somehow, she always knows when he's on one of his accounts. "This isn't corruption. This is my fair share," he retorts.

Icamen looks up from the screens displaying security camera footage, unimpressed. Don almost jolts. “Don’t look away! You might—“

"Who do you send all that money to anyway?" She narrows her eyes at him.

"My family," Don replies, deadpan.

Icamen scoffs. "Sure. Do you get Angel Gabriel to deliver it, or does Heaven have wifi?"

Don rolls his eyes. “Do you really think I’d be in touch with Heaven?”

Icamen laughs at him, then stretches her arms out, yawning. "Don, just tell me! Is it a girl? Or guy? It's got to be a lover of some sort, right?" she guesses.

Don gives her a look. Icamen shoots him a sly grin before continuing. "I'm almost at the point of torturing you for this information," she says.

"So treason is any better than corruption?"

Just then, a phone rings. Don jumps, hand reaching for his back pocket, where he usually keeps his gun. But it isn't there. "Radio," Icamen tells him mechanically, like he's being predictable. Don resists the urge to glare menacingly at her. He looks at the radio and indeed, he left his revolver on top of one of the huge speakers.

Don shifts his gaze back to Icamen, refusing to get up. "Remind me again why I have a radio when you won't let me use it?"

"Because you care about professional image and karaoke is unbecoming of someone in your position," she replies in a matter-of-fact tone.

A phone's ringing interrupts their repartee once more. The one in the sala, by the solarium. Don and Icamen's heads snap up.

"You answer it," Icamen orders.

"It's closer to you," Don points out.

"I answered last time."

"It's literally right beside you."

"Rules."

Don groans, exasperated. "Fine," he says. He stands and walks all the way across the penthouse to pick up the phone. He presses the receive button that produces a small beep! Then he shoves the phone into Icamen's face. She growls, handling it. "Who in hell is this?" she barks.

Don trains his gaze on the security footage while she talks. "Honestly, can't you handle anything yourselves?" she tells them. "Bakunawa's busy!"

Don scoffs. Busy. If you mean 'avoiding assassination', then yes.

Icamen pauses to listen, a morose expression on her face. She sighs heavily, right hand running through her hair. "Put-- Okay! He's coming. If this isn't worth the time, I will castrate you!"

She slams the phone down, forgetting it's a wireless phone, meaning she still needs to press a button for the line to disconnect. Don has a teasing smile on his face. "Tsk, tsk, Icamen. Always so cranky on the phone. What would the underlings think?" he admonishes her.

"They'd think I'm the boss, and you're the friggin' consigliere," she spits.

Don points a finger. "Treason. Right there. Anyway, what's this rendezvous you signed me up for?" he asks.

"'Meeting' has less syllables, if you don't want to waste your breath trying to sound fancy." She exhales. "Foreigners. They want to invest."

Don looks away, to the giant glass window. He already knows he isn't going to enjoy this.

"It would strengthen our side on the war against Millian. Connections and cash," Icamen says.

"And it might as well doom us." Don sighs, fingers wiping down the side of his face from brow to jaw. "What country?"

"Organization is international, but based in Eliaer."

Don's eyes roll so far, he has to cover them so he won't feel cross-eyed. "Because two governments after my head is so much better than one."

"You know what you look like right now?" Icamen scolds. "Locked up in a hotel for a week? You look like an insipid coward hiding from an organization that doesn't even exist."

Don glares at that. But she was right. Nobody has ever seen a Guinto firing squad member. So to all under him, he just seems like a child cowering under sheets from ghosts and monsters.

He growls, scratching the back of his head. "Fine," he concedes, "but it better not be the Quinn brothers!"

*

It was the Quinn brothers. Don strains to keep his expression calm and stoic before those two bumbling idiots prance around with their Eliaeran accents. They're all at the regular discussion room, in the abandoned hospital with burnt walls and blackened windows. Renovated abandoned hospital. The grand chandelier is back, anyway. But the elongated table has left the hall.

Don sits on his throne, concealing his impatience. Other than Icamen who stands by his side, there is no other soul in sight. But of course, Don takes precautions. He's got some snipers hidden around the room.

The towering doors release a loud groan of metal against marble as they are pushed open. Two wealthily dressed men come strutting in. Over their black suits, they wear gold sashes. The newly-repaired chandelier illuminates the ugly scars on both Eliaerins' faces.

"You look charming today, Quinn," Don greets them both.

The older brother scowls up at him. "You still live to flatter yourself, Bakunawa," he replies sharply. His voice is deep and thick, resonating in his throat when he speaks. He pronounces all his B's as V's. Vakunawa.

Don grins into his fist. "But the scars look especially good on you, Chevva."

The Eliaerin smiles bitterly upon hearing his name.

"If only ropeburns and chainmarks didn't heal. Then you'd be just as pretty," comes the younger's voice. His accent is much lighter, and his voice although baritone, is a tad higher compared to his brother. Kair Quinn.

Don clenches his fists, resisting the urge touch his neck. "Enough with the pleasantries. You have a proposition to confer."

Kair smirks, always the prouder of the two. His line of sight wanders to Don's right: Icamen. "Wonderful to see you again, Princess. We were sorry to hear about the old Boss' death. Though it seems strange to me that his consigliere took over the throne instead of his biological heir. To think the old man would actually trust a stray orphan more than his own daughter," Kair taunts.

Don glances at Icamen. Her visage portrays pure distaste. Shockingly, she does not make a move to murder. "Kill yourself before I do," she snarls.

Kair grins.

Don lets out a breath. "Stalling, are we?" he raises an eyebrow at the brothers. The Quinn's exchange a look and begin.

"We propose an alliance," the older, Chevva, says in his hard accent. "A partnership. Between Manaul and Mosa. We want to be able to move freely here in Carigta, with your assistance and cooperation. Ideally, we want to build a base right here, in the midst of this city. Ah, but that can be negotiated upon."

"How does this benefit me?" Don asks. He already knows the answer, but he needs them to say it aloud. Documentation is important.

Also, he would never admit to this, but he loves the tension it creates.

It's Kair's turn to speak. "Mosa is the most powerful organization in the world--!"

"Crime organization. Pardon me. Continue," Don corrects.

"You are pardoned..." Kair looks at him accusingly. The Mosa never seem to acknowledge their own sins as sins. Like having a religion makes them exempted, somehow. Don, on the other hand, has completely mastered being a sinner.

"We have plenty of connections all around the world. We can share them with you. All the money we make in this country will be split with you-- fifty-fifty! Imagine how great you will be then! And let's not forget... I hear you are at odds with your President. Millian, no?" Kair says as if he's being clever.

"Millian is the country's President, yes," Don agrees, unsurprised.

"That was you who bombed his hometown, correct? I saw it in the news. Thirteen dead," Kair adds conversationally.

"There are lots of theories about who exactly bombed Laudo," Don starts, remembering the Bandit. "Though, in my opinion, the bombing wasn't meant to massacre, but rather to scare or show resistance. It was too reckless for my tastes, honestly," he shrugs. And not a single lie yet.

"Of course, of course," Kair nods, even bowing slightly for effect. "But... it comes to our attention that you are being hunted by the President's troops."

Don narrows his eyes. "Now how would you know that?" The annihilation of the Corazon Mafia hasn't been made public, and only few had seen Guinto's folder. The fact that the Quinn’s came only three days after they had received the message is suspicious. Unfortunately, they do not answer the question.

"Having Mosa at your side will guarantee protection from even the greatest governments in the world! We will see to it that you are untouchable. Our power is your power," Kair beams widely, certain that Don could not refuse. Who could, after all? The benefits outweigh the costs, right?

Wrong. For one thing, Mosa is a terrorist organization. Their childish goal is world domination. They aren't here to share. They're here to covet endlessly, and as soon as they can stand on their own in Carigta, Don loses his usefulness and starts to become a liability. It would take maybe five to ten years before they finally decide to kill him.

On the other hand, if he refuses, he is at immediate war against the entire Mosa in addition to Millian's forces. Manaul isn't the first crime organization Mosa came to woo. The others that denied cooperation were dealt with. Mosa got what they wanted anyway.

Hence, the obvious answer is to accept the proposal.

"So you offer me protection, progress, power, and money..." Don says. Despite the situation, he's bothered that the last word doesn't start with the letter 'p'. He should've changed 'money' into 'pay'. Or 'profit'. Profit sounds so much better-- Anyway. "...While I provide access. What makes you think I will condone terrorism in my country?"

Chevva steps forward. "As long as you are on the safe side of the gun, war is good for business," he smirks nefariously. "What do you say?"

Don imagines a Carigta where death is as regular as day, and all the sensible people are in hiding. Terrorism would be rampant, thanks to his acquiescence, and with the present state of their country, perhaps a civil war would be at hand. Don would earn billions from selling arms and explosives. He could own an even bigger penthouse with a huge solarium and a breathtaking view. It was all dandy, except…

It was a Carigta where he wasn’t on top. That irked him to no end.

At least he had prepared for it. What kind of crime boss would walk into someone else's agreement without a bargaining chip of his own? Not Don. Obviously.

"Hm... Consider this," Don begins. At that moment, a phone rings. The Quinn’s look at each other. A moment passes by and neither has made a move. “I can wait,” Don assures them benevolently.

Cursing, Chevva fishes for the phone in his pocket. He answers it growling in his native tongue. Kair stands by almost awkwardly. Chevva’s voice only seems to get louder and louder. He practically throws the phone at Kair who starts barking too. Icamen watches the exchange in confusion. Don raises his eyebrows meaningfully at her. ‘Ahh’ she mouths, understanding, then looks back at the two.

The brothers are full-on arguing now. The expression on their faces look like a mix between subtly life-threatened, and overtly life-threatening. Which only means they've received some economically bad news.

"Something wrong?" Don asks slowly, hiding his amusement. The brothers remain silent, muttering only to each other. "Do you need a recess or something?" he asks again. "To compute how much you've lost?"

The two raise their eyes to him, accusingly. Both practically seething.

"Or how much you have left?" Don adds.

"Thief!" Chevva bellows fiercely, stepping forward. "Vtangshe ehuk!"

Don knows ehuk is used to refer to shameless vermin. Vtangshe, on the other hand, he doesn't know, but it can't be any better. "I've the impression that your men are loose cannons. They best show more caution, if you want what's left of your budget to cover all the ammo," he says, a smile persistently creeping up onto his face.

Kair shouts in wrath. His hand seizes a gun from his sash and points it up at Don's head. Icamen moves swiftly, leaping in front of the throne with weapons drawn and eyes glaring daggers.

"Stand down, Icamen," Don tells her. "Brand new toy, Kair?"

A red dot appears on Kair's suit. Then, in an instant, there are more. Red dot sights aim at both Eliaerin, making them freeze. Hidden in the shadows, Manaul snipers armed with rifles strive to defend their leader. Bakunawa smiles into his palm.

"Drop it. Both of you," Icamen commands sternly, her own .45 caliber pistol clicking ready.

The Quinn's exchange constrained looks. Finally, they throw down their weapons violently. Kair releases a frustrated roar.

"You infidel," Kair growls through gritted teeth. "How much did you take from us?"

That's when Don decides to reveal a huge, menacing grin. "Fifty grand. In Eliaeran currency," he informs, delighted.

"We should have killed you when we had the chance!" Chevva shouts.

"My thoughts exactly," Don chirps. "Now... Unless you have anything more interesting to offer..." He nods pointedly, a gesture referring to Icamen and all she bears. She does look promising. Her gun certainly promises something.

"Vtangshe Bakunawa!" Kair spits, quite literally. "You think we'd come to your country unprepared? You are not the only one we came to bargain with."

Despite all the firearms aimed at him and his brother, Kair smirks. Something is wrong. "Kill them!" Don yells. But before the whole command comes out, an explosion rips through the air. Smoke rises from somewhere near the ceiling, and some of Don's men fall from their cover, wounded. Scorched.

More explosions take down his snipers. Don stands, gun drawn as well. "How--?"

Icamen takes her chance before it's gone. She shoots. Panicked, Chevva runs-- directly in her line of fire. The Eliaerin falls to the ground, blood oozing out of the rip in his chest.

At the same time it takes for Kair to scream his brother's name, the grand doors are blown off their hinges. Don seals his eyes shut as heat and dirt meet his skin. He hears a faraway ringing behind the sound of crumbling walls.

This would be the third time this hospital got unofficially demolished, he remarks insouciantly in his mind. When he opens his eyes, the cloud of dust has yet to clear. Between the fallen metal doors, he sees silhouettes-- Maybe seven. He makes out the face of the one on the center: A buff Carigtan with a predator's eyes. Images flash through Don's thoughts. Severed heads. Reno Corazon. An enemy's message.

Guinto.

A hand appears from the cloud of dirt and grabs his wrist, dragging him fast and away. "Bakunawa! Let's roll!" he hears a voice shout distantly. Icamen's voice.

Don regains control of his legs and runs, under the cover of smoke. Gunshots resound, but Icamen is quicker. She zigzags past the falling debris with Don in tow, to the back door behind the curtains.

What's our plan? Don keeps thinking, trying to project his thoughts to Icamen. He slaps himself, mentally. You're supposed to think of the plan! he berates.

His associates must be on their way, by now. He'd flay them if not. Though that depends on whether or not he'll survive--

A cacophony of gunshots rip through the air, aim improving after every attempt. Don warns himself not to look back, but the temptation is too much, especially when a bullet soars right past his head. They're gaining.

Those gatecrashing, amateurish dastards, Don thinks, though in truth they seem experienced in this line of work. Experienced enough to block their ways out, maybe. The word 'amateurish' reminds him of the Bandit, for some reason, and that gives him an idea.

"Icamen," he calls. "Forget the exit. Go for the tunnels!" he orders.

"Are you an idiot?" she says, pausing for breath. "We'd get cornered there!"

Don strains his legs that already feel as though they are burning to match her pace. "Might be the same case for them!" he replies.

She must get his drift instantaneously, because she whips out a radio and speaks into the speaker. "Rear entrance. Now!" The exit is close now. Icamen and Don speed towards it, only to make a sharp turn right before they collide. Just as they do, the exit doors explode. Don can feel the entire edifice shaking at the amount of destruction.

Where is my revolver? Don thinks to himself furiously. He should've taken it out earlier, but of course it is only for show. With only six rounds, it isn't much use in a gunfight.

"Ah!" He finds it in the pocket of his leather jacket. Whilst running, he turns back. He doesn't really aim so much as estimates, then he fires. A man gets hit in the neck and blood sprays. Pain sears against his skin as a bullet grazes his shoulder.

Don runs faster.

Icamen makes several sharp turns and charges down flights of stairs to confuse Guinto. The intruders seem farther behind now, to Don's relief but--

BAM!

Icamen pulls Don behind a wall of concrete just in time for a wave of heat and light to force them down against the hard floor.

"Right. Ghost organization in league with the President," Don grunts out in a restrained voice. "Of course they have grenade-launchers."

"Get off your ass, Bakunawa!" Icamen pulls him up, and her grip is steel. More explosions commence, making Don want to recite the Geneva Convention-- which explicitly bans any form of violence in hospital areas-- at them, but something tells him they won't listen.

To be fair, he never listened either.

Underground is reached and the tunnel opening is in sight. Icamen practically shoves him in. "Get in before they come!" she ushers. But before she shuts the door behind them, a flash of white light sends an impact that knocks them to the floor. Smoke enters Don's lungs unpleasantly as he crawls towards his consigliere. "Icamen," he coughs out. I promised to lay off smoking, and this is how the world repays me? he thinks bitterly as his eyes start tearing from the pollution.

He nudges Icamen twice, but she remains limp and unconscious. Don places the back of his hand a small distance from Icamen's mouth. His skin is tickled by a mere ghost of a breath. Footsteps start to resound on the other side of the battered tunnel door. With mild hesitation and remarkably no complaining, Don takes both of her ankles and drags her across the metal floor.

The first corridor that appears on his right would lead to the Rear Entrance. This he remembers faintly, but is certain of.

Dragging Icamen, he can only walk backwards. He presses his right shoulder against the wall so he could know when the corridor came up, even in darkness. Without any forewarning, the tunnel is illuminated by the sparks of bullets ricocheting against the tunnel walls.

He shuffles faster, his head spinning. The bullets find their marks closer and closer to Don's body. He gasps as a bullet grazes past his hip. His steps falter, but he keeps his hands firmly on Icamen's ankles. With a growl, he resolves to move quicker, but each step is hindered by pain. He catches a whiff of the metallic scent of his own blood. His throat constricts.

A sharp pain erupts in his thigh, right above his knee, and rips him from his musings. He's been hit. A scream rattles out his throat as he stumbles and falls on his back. He feels the blood out of the boundaries of his skin, oozing through his fingers. His breathing, fast and shallow, feels almost as painful as the wound. He uses every ounce of will left in his depleting consciousness to tighten his grip on Icamen.

"If we both die today," he tells her incognizant body while heaving for breath, "It's all your fault." Icamen does not respond.

With a cry, he gets up and leans against the wall, plodding further with Icamen in tow. Then he falls. To his right.

The corridor.

He tries to make a run for it, but his legs collapse beneath him. The metal ladder of the Rear Entrance is in sight, but his eyes are failing him. He sees a ray of light shining upon him even as blotches of black threaten to steal his vision. Pairs of legs rush towards him.

Guinto has found me, he thinks. I die by their hand.

He clings desperately onto consciousness, but there is no way for it to stay any longer. The last he gets to experience is the roughness of being pulled across the floor, and the vibrations of another grenade.