07

Bombings have gone rampant all over the region. More innocents were falling victim to this conflict. The President of Carigta has publicly announced his threat on the supposed masked bomber's life, in addition to a notorious crime boss already knowing her face. In summary, it was a hectic two weeks. After trying to map out the roads underneath the city, what had Selina so busy that any plan to get back in the fight was too onerous to attempt?

Simple. Finals week.

That semester had her grades hanging by the skin of the teeth. Her grandmother was starting to lose faith in her, and that was probably the worst feeling to ever exist to sentient beings. So she settled with the strategy of letting the whole situation peter out until her grades were secure once more. What she didn't take into account was how long that would take.

"Rhoda?"

"I'm a little busy at the moment!" Her voice screams impatience, even through the phone. "Is this important?"

Selina eyes dart down to her chemistry book on the floor. 'Yes it is! I can't balance this stupid equation!' she wants to say, but somehow, that seems inconsiderate. Rhoda had been so busy lately. "No, nevermind," she says instead. "Just remember to pick up some milk on the way home. Trinidad says so."

"Yeah yeah, sure," Rhoda replies, sounding distracted. Selina hears a scratching sound that she assumes to be Rhoda's hair on the receiver. There's a lot of shouting in the background, but she can't make out the words. They all seem to be talking at the same time. Selina listens harder, trying to picture the scenario.

Her eyes shoot wide open. "Is that screaming?"

More scratching and shuffling meets her ears. "Call you back later!" Rhoda answers, which isn't much of an answer at all. Selina is definitely sure that is screaming. There's wailing too, from children and babies, and she's certain there's a dog barking--

BANG!

"Rhoda!" Selina cries. The line goes dead. She quickly taps Rhoda's name on the device to see her location. City Hall. A fare away.

She drops her phone on her bed, biting her lower lip, eyes wandering to the chemistry book discarded on the floor. Her hands wipe over her eyes, then move higher to run through her bushy hair. Her fingernails claw into her scalp. "Urghhh!" she growls. She jumps down from her bed, then paces to the other side of the room. Her frustration gathers at the ball of her fist when she punches the concrete wall. The force vibrates through her arm.

College is scary. Her entire future hinges on it, on how high or low the numbers they give her are. College is dancing on the knife’s edge between failure and success. She cannot afford to be sidetracked.

But the path she chose was not one of convenience. Her conscience wouldn’t be able to take it.

*

Okay, breathe in, okay.

The Bandit hides behind a truck across the street, assessing the scenario. There’s a team of Police right outside City Hall. Some are ushering a persistent crowd of civilians away from the building. The wiser minority of civilians have fled the area, but there’s always that stubborn breed that loves taking pictures and being an overall hindrance. She cannot sight Rhoda in all this mess.

Assessment: Maybe a criminal? Another accused?

Loud barking startles her deeper into hiding, successfully capturing her attention. Police dogs. Why…?

The modest firetruck usually parked beside City Hall is pulled out a little further, being manned by fully uniformed firefighters. A tank of LPG is being rushed out of the scene.

Assessment: Bomb threat.

Selina almost turns back home. Ninety percent of the time (by her instinct-founded statistics), a bomb threat is just that; a threat. Back in high school, plenty of anonymous callers threatened the administrators, curiously on the same day as student examinations. For all that she knows, this is the threat she imparted herself. Accidentally.

She is about to exit the area when she notices something. No one is going in. Not the cops, not the dogs. No one. Behind a line of Police shields, someone holds a megaphone. She has watched enough teleseryes to recognize the scene.

Assessment: Hostage-taking.

Her eyes flit around from under the skull helmet (which she has grown rather attached to) looking for a way to sneak in. The whole edifice is surrounded. No door or window is hidden from the eyes of the public. That leaves one final alternative. One Selina finds herself eager to try.

She makes her way nimbly to the corner of an old cemented wall imbued with flora. Thence lies a seemingly chained hatch that is assumed to lead to the sewers. It is not locked, nor has it been pervaded by sewage. She hastily ducks into it, its metal hinges creaking with rust. She slams it shut behind her, thankful of the ruckus, and is swallowed by silent, dusty darkness. She procures a flashlight from the pocket of her hoodie and clicks it into life. White slices black. In the suddenness, she almost feels her pupils constricting.

The air is stale around her, and there is no product of nature in sight. She doesn’t like the Tunnels. But fear aside, she knew it was an asset. A year ago, if anyone asked her to navigate a vast expanse of tunnel beneath the city, she wouldn’t dare. Not if she had an army of bioluminescent friends along. Now, she knows the only thing she needs to fear is people, and company is a feeble thing to rely on.

She holds the flashlight between her neck and chin, so she can access the map she kept in her left jean pocket. Her breathing feels too heavy while she wrestles it out. She flaps it open with one hand, grabbing the light with another. Ridding her thoughts of zombies and ghosts of soldiers, she searches for her current location.

You have a mission… Focus...

She finds the dot she scribbled in ballpoint, by Champagnat Street. Just as she remembers, City Hall has its own opening— only a jog away!

She turns about, making sure she’s facing the right direction, then dashes through, heart threatening to pound straight out her chest. Her footsteps echo forebodingly, sounding as if they belong to more than one person. Her gut clenches at the thought. When she hears small clangs reverberate from the walls around her and sees rats scamper by, she is almost thankful for their presence. Nevermind that one looks large enough to swallow her foot.

There! Ahead, the light shines against a ladder of wires leading up the wall. She folds the map messily, stuffing it into her pocket, and all but jumps on the wires. The impact echoes through the tunnels, making her resolve to move faster. She tucks the flashlight back into her hoodie, turning it off, and— Bad idea!

Darkness envelops her, almost too tangible to breathe in. Her stomach is flipping violently in fear as she feels blindly for the next rail. She climbs like mad until her head thunks against the closed hatch above. She frees one hand to fuss over her disguise before pushing the hatch with all the strength she can muster. It lifts, lighter than she last remembers. Light does not meet her eyes, but the darkness appears softer. She breathes in fresher air and pushes the tunnel all the way—

CLANG!

Her heart stops. She tries again, pushing with even her head this time.

CLANG!

It’s stuck. Selina hears a low jingling in front of her face. Chains, she thinks bitterly. Of course the Mayor won’t leave the tunnel open! She’s surprised he hasn’t cemented it yet. This mission was doomed from the start!

Stop, stop, stop, think, think, think…

Judging by the silence, there is no one around. She raises her head to keep the hatch open, so that her free hand can reach for her flashlight.

She turns it on and sways it around. She’s in a small room. Some sort of bodega. There are boxes cluttered around and some junk that hasn’t been used for ages. On the wall, there are stairs that lead up to a door. That would be swell and all, if she could actually get to it!

Carefully, she lowers the flashlight onto the room’s floor. She’s gone too far to give up now. She steps higher up the rails so that her entire back is against the hatch’s door. She takes a deep breath. One, two, three—

CLANG!

She bucks against the hatch over and over, praying the chains would come loose. The back of her head explodes in pain as it catches on the thin edge. If she weren’t wearing a hood, she might have been bleeding. Her grip tightens as she tries to steady her vision. One, two, three—

A rain of sound, metal against metal, graces her ears the chains fall out of place. She springs out in victory, but alas! Thanks to adult female biology, her hips are too wide to fit through!

She flips around on her back, hands flat against the floor, then kicks the door as hard as she can. It only takes four kicks to get the rest of the chains off, freeing her lower body. She squirms out and wobbles to her feet, grabbing a wooden table for support. If only she brought a bottle of water.

She zips past the boxes, climbing up the stairs. Whatever is out that door, she will face it with Nerf gun blazing—

The doorknob only rattles. She rams her body against the door. It doesn’t budge.

What. In. HELL.

She punches the door, roaring. Her fist doesn’t hurt that much upon connection. The door’s only plastic. She runs back down the stairs to find anything that could help her. Cardboard and papers won’t do. Her eye catches a glint against her flashlight’s beam. She pushes off the pile of documents above it to find an entire box of sharp and rusting items. Most are for gardening. A thin blade, a gardening scissors, a broken chainsaw. Her gloved hand settles on firm wood that’s yet to decay. She drags it up. It’s an axe. Why would City Hall have an axe?!

She weighs it in her hands. It’s more of a machete than an axe. She takes it begrudgingly, and walks halfway to the stairs when she decides she really doesn’t want to be the psychopath in a horror movie. Her flashlight scans the area for any alternative at all.

Oh! How hadn’t she noticed? One of the weapons she dug out of the box was an old gun. She takes it up the stairs with her, along with the machete. She places it beside the knob, pressing down the safety. Okay…

She fixes her stance. It can’t be that hard, right? But what if she needs it against the hostage-takers? She sighs and lowers the gun to the floor. She places both hands on the hilt of the machete, holding it like a baseball bat. She’s had worse ideas. She grits her teeth. “Hey batter batter, hey batter batter, swing!”

One swing is enough to get the axe stuck through the door. She pulls it out, kicking the door in her struggle. She puts an arm through the hole and unlocks the knob, relieved to hear it click. Here’s when the real trouble starts.

She finds to her dismay that the door leads to another dark room. However, this one seems to have been recently inhabited. The door is open, flooding light from the outside. She clicks her flashlight off. Her head is woozy from all the adrenaline, but she is certain she hears voices outside. One orders someone to check on the noise.

She hides behind one door, machete on one hand, gun in another, and flashlight in her pocket. She supposes there is no need for a Nerf gun now. There is nothing left to do but listen. Her sweat damp hair sticks to the back of her neck uncomfortably. She tries to peek through the gap between hinges, but her view is hindered.

Someone steps in.

The man is younger and lankier than she expected. The only thing that distinguishes him from any random guy is a black band of cloth around his brow.

That, and the machine gun hanging from his neck. The man cusses, in search of the light switch. Selina bites the inside of her cheek. He gives up on the switch and walks right past her, clumsily kicking past items.

Selina could walk straight out the door. Or, she considers, she could injure the man while she still has the element of surprise. That would be one bad guy down. Embracing this logic, she raises her gun and aims. This is for the greater good. She pulls the trigger.

Click!

Oh no.

Click! Click!

It’s not loaded.

The man whirls around, but before he can fully turn, Selina leaps forward and delivers a swift kick to the back of his leg. He crashes to the ground with a shocked yelp. Selina kicks down his back and, without thinking, smashes his head with the flat of the machete. The man slumps over, unconscious.

She takes the man’s gun—it’s a machine gun, she realizes—and slings it over her shoulder. She throws the other gun aside.

“What was that?” she hears faintly. She jumps across the carpet of light to the other side of the door. The light outside eases her almost as much as it blinds her. She’s on the ground floor, and so is everyone else. All the hostages are rounded up in the center of the wide hall, and there are at least two criminals visible, clad similarly to the other one. Another two appear, headed her way.

Selina runs across the open door again, headed for the bodega. “Over there!” she hears one say. She squats down beside the stairs where she hopes is their blind spot. The bullets come before the men, annihilating whatever scrap objects kept in there. The men step down and cease fire. They’re bigger than the other one, she notes. Angrier. One looks back at her. She fires.

The recoil pushes her back against the wall as her line of fire spins out of control. They’re fazed for a second before returning a fiery vengeance. Against her better judgement, she runs. Bullets trail her as she rounds the room like a maniac. Her mind is a meld of drums and screaming. She hops behind the metal hatch and—Thank the Maker!—the bullets rebound. She flips the gun in her hands. No time to aim. She brings it above the hatch and fires blindly around the room. Just when she thinks she’s about to go deaf, there’s a dull thunk and the enemy’s fire ceases. One man is down. The other is nowhere to be found.

A bullet whizzes right past her eyes and she falls backwards in shock. The other man stands a few feet away, by the boxes. Selina rolls, dodging the barrage of bullets, until she’s at his feet, too close to shoot. He aims at her, but she’s quicker. She kicks his shin and his leg collapses beneath him, sending a trail of stray fire to the ceiling. He scrambles to his feet, but she swings her gun against his head. He falls over, nose spurting blood. With all her might, Selina swings the gun like a golf club in a professional competition. He’s out cold.

Selina slumps down, sitting over the man’s unconscious body and huffing in exhaustion.

Where was I? Hostages. Right.

She drags the gun off the man’s body. It’s definitely in a better condition than her makeshift golf club.

When she gets back up, there is no hesitation. She runs straight into the light and shoots at one of the criminals. The man only gets to fire strays before falling over in bloodied pain. The hostages are just as surprised. Several scream, and children start crying.

Selina takes cover behind City Hall’s extravagant stairs. When she lifts her head to fire, what she sees stops her cold.

“Put down the gun, Haliya!” the woman says. Her hair is dyed blonde. She has her gun against the side of a little girl. Her face is wet from crying, and one cheek is swollen. The sight of it makes Selina’s blood boil in anger. The girl’s wearing a coat that’s too big for her, wires snaking around beneath it. “Put it down, or I’ll detonate the bomb.”

Selina throws her gun down. “Let her go!” she shouts, the helmet’s vocoder making her sound more intimidating. She must be a sight: an oversized hoodie and a toy mask along with mismatched shoes. She must have left the machete downstairs.

“Okay.” The woman shrugs. “After you take off the helmet.”

Selina’s eyes widen and her heart seems to fall into an abyss. More terrorists come over to stand by the blonde. City Hall seems to go mute. Her hands won’t move.

“You are hard to find,” the blonde says. “We wouldn’t dream of resorting to this otherwise. Remove your helmet and come with us. Unless the souls of these hostages mean nothing to you?” She sneers devilishly, finger still upon the trigger.

Selina is frozen. There has to be a loophole. Another way for both her identity and the hostages to be safe. Where she doesn’t have to make a decision. If she takes off her helmet, Millian would know. He’d find her.

A sniffle breaks her from her trance. The little girl sobs softly. She looks terrified.

“It’s alright,” Selina tries to tell her, but the vocoder makes it sound wrong. Her hands touch her helmet hesitantly. The path she chose was not one of convenience.

She takes it off.

City Hall echoes with gasps. The little girl sees her true face, bruised and sweaty. “It’s alright,” she whispers, her voice shaking. Something in the girl’s hazel eyes wants to believe. The blonde smirks triumphantly.

BANG!

Selina hears the girl scream. A terrorist falls over, a hole clean through his head. Automatically, the blonde prods the girl forcefully, and a high-pitched beeping noise resounds.

“No!” Selina races forwards to get the girl away from the terrorists. The blonde fights her, and at that moment, it’s obvious: She wants to get out of this alive.

Another shot rings through the hall, hitting the blonde in the arm. She falls backwards. Selina whirls around to see where the shot came from. Relief flutters in her chest. On the second floor, Rhoda stands tall, pistol still extended. “The bomb!” she shouts at Selina as if they’re on the same team.

Selina kneels before the little girl and wrestles the coat off her. “Get out! Everyone, get out!” She shouts, her voice rasping. The hostages run free, panicked and distressed. Selina throws the bomb on the ground and sweeps the girl off her feet. “Rhoda! Let’s go!” she calls over her shoulder, but to her horror, Rhoda heads down to the bomb and kneels before it.

Caught between saving the little girl and saving her sister, she stops dead in her tracks. The girl clings tightly on her neck. Her hiccupping is silent, but she’s still crying.

Selina rushes out of the hall with her in tow, jogging cautiously down the stairs. A crowd of people sweeps by her like a violent current. “Take her!” she screams at an officer in the midst of the chaos. “Take her!”

The man lifts the girl from her hands, a startled expression on his face. “Get her out of here!” Selina orders the cop, then darts back into the building. In the distance, at the foot of the grand stairs, she sees Rhoda’s figure still kneeling by the bomb.

“Rhoda! Don’t be stupid— GET OUT OF HERE!” Selina shouts at the top of her lungs.

Rhoda takes no heed. Selina kneels down beside her and tugs at her shoulder, but Rhoda remains adamant. The beeping grates at her ears, seeming to fill the entire hall.

Beep.

She sees her sister’s face, sweat-damp and drained of color. Her hands move fast among the explosive’s wires without tremble. She grits her teeth, visage portraying steely determination. Belying the fear in her eyes.

Beep.

“Please,” Selina begs desperately, trying to drag her big sister away from the cruel device. Hot tears fill her eyes. “Rhoda, come on!” She doesn’t budge.

Beep.

She’s always looked up to her sister. Always knew she would be the one to go far. Always felt that no matter what, her sister would be there, fighting by her side. She doesn’t want to stop feeling that.

Beep.

I can’t leave her, Selina closes her eyes. I can’t. And thus, two sisters meet their end, unparted.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep—