Sex is a Job Description? Ch. 03

Tom swore silently. Well, that killed his plan to be the forward sentry at the gatehouse. After Bjorn was done speaking, there was quite a bit of discussion about what to do, essentially throwing Bjorn's plan away and trying to decide the best layout of the positions they could take. Tom left the fire and checked his pistol, his rifle, and his sword one last time before climbing up to the second story of the keep, where he met Donalbain preparing for the troll's arrival.

"Damned, blasted thing! Damn ye ta hell!" he growled, followed by clanking and clanging of metal. Tom peered into the room Donalbain was in and was surprised to find the large man trying to dress himself in steel platemail. He stopped when he saw Tom, and sighed.

"I'm not judging anyone," Tom said, raising his hands.

"Ah dinnae thin' yer keen ta helpin' me, are ye?" he asked.

"Sure," replied the agent, setting the Mosin Nagant down and walking over to Donalbain. With the Scotsman's instructions, he helped fasten the breastplate and plateskirt to his huge frame. He secured a number of other smaller pieces and Donalbain ran over the list in his head of what all needed to be double checked before he could say he was finished.

It was almost awe-inspiring to see someone in a real suit of armor. It wasn't like what you'd see at a Renaissance Fair, where everything was in perfect condition and spotless. Donalbain's armor looked old and bore many marks of battle. The leather straps were all old and well-worn, and a few had been replaced recently judging by their conditions. It was hard to think this armor could even be scratched, but there were several dents and pinholes in almost every piece.

"Thank ye, lad," Donalbain said, reaching down to pick something up off the floor.

"Is this armor a family heirloom?"

The Scotsman nodded as he donned a large, crested Corinthian helm. "An th' helm is a geft from an old friend. Ah would put mah life on this helm holdin' up to a troll's swing. Though it's a bit out o' place with the rest o' this," he admitted. He picked up his claymore and brandished it proudly in both hands.

"Ready to be a trollslayer?" Tom asked cheekily. Donalbain have him a look from beneath his helm.

"A highlander is always up fer a good scrap," he said, turning toward the stairs that led to the castle courtyard. Tom made his way to the roof of the keep and watched the area below as the fire was doused, the goat from earlier that day tied up in the Bowling Green, and nine men and a demon moved about with their weapons in hand.

He couldn't see Donalbain anywhere, and assumed he was hiding somewhere to ambush the troll. So, Tom loaded five cartridges into the magazine and waited.

The goat brayed once in the middle of the yard and began to eat the grass at its feet.

It was about four hours before the troll arrived, and nobody managed to realize this fact until it was already through the front gate and making its way into the large, open yard beside the Bowling Green. Tom didn't understand what had happened until someone shot a bright red flare at the thing's feet.

Suddenly, a staccato of gunfire erupted from the yard below and Tom looked over the crenelations to see a large, burly shape in the middle of the yard and almost a dozen constant flashes near the palace and the chapel. Tom raised his rifle and fired at the troll twice, striking it in the arm and the head.

It didn't seem to notice though. It didn't even seem to notice that it was being fired at from three directions and taking enough fire to drop a lead elephant. It stood where it was, turning its head slowly in the direction of the most gunfire.

Tom shot it three more times, earning nothing again as the troll began to move toward the palace. The flare caught the yard on fire and bright yellow flames started to leap out in every direction, causing the troll to be clearly illuminated. Tom couldn't even tell if it was hurt from here, and decided to go down for a closer look and a better position.

He hurried down the stairs and made it to the bottom floor, where an armored hand caught him at the door. He looked up to see Donalbain standing at the doorway, holding a finger to his mouth for silence.

"Cannae kell a beastie like this with whit yer friends brought. Maybe yers, but not their machine guns. Th' caliber's too low." He narrowed his eyes beneath his helm and pursed his lips.

"So what do we do?" Tom asked, taking another shot at the troll as it scattered the agents from the palace with a raised fist the size of a car engine. The troll lurched forward and then turned around to see what had hurt it.

"We wait," Donalbain replied.

Tom fired the rest of his magazine at the troll, apparently to little effect other than to make it unhappier. It turned around a few times, the fire spreading around its feet now and devouring what short grass it had to feed on. The beast didn't seem to notice much as it found the nearest agent and swung at him.

The man would have been killed if he hadn't thrown himself to the side before the blow struck. The troll's fist slammed into the earth so hard that the entire yard shook from the impact. At this point, Donalbain leapt from the doorway and sprinted across the yard with his sword ready.

It took Tom a moment to realize that the highlander had just decided to charge headlong into a troll armed only with a sword and a Gaelic warcry to fight it. The agent fired five more cartridges, and again earned little more than a tiny fraction of the troll's attention.

Donalbain launched himself off the ground and slammed into the troll's back, blade first. The highland claymore struck home, burying itself down to the hilt in the troll's body. Donalbain began to wrench his blade free, bullets ricocheting off the troll's thick hide and his armor.

Tom moved in to get a better shot, reloading. He was about fifteen feet out of the troll's reach when he took three shots at its face. Two struck it directly in the forehead, and one went through its left eye socket. The thing snorted, slammed both of its fists on the ground with enough force to crack an arctic glacier, and then reached back for Donalbain.

It grabbed the huge highlander and threw him against the yard with a shrill crack of breaking metal. It then swatted Donalbain into the palace wall and grunted, reaching back ineffectually for Donalbain's claymore still jutting from between its shoulders like a candle on a birthday cake.

Tom started to run even before it turned its one good eye toward him. He was already at a dead sprint toward the chapel when it started to thunder after him, its short legs working furiously to match Tom's pace.

The agent didn't even notice he'd run right past Veronica until she cursed aloud and caught up to him.

"Great job, asshat!" she snapped, pausing briefly to blast the troll's shoulder with buckshot. She tossed her shotgun aside and groaned audibly. "Why is it that you've gotten the only worthwhile hit?"

"Get on it's back and cut its head off or something!" Tom shouted, ducking right as he neared the chapel's doorway. Three agents dove through the windows of the little stone building to avoid the troll's incoming charge.

It slid to a halt in front of the structure and launched itself forward with both arms, bearing down on Tom with uncanny speed. He threw his gun aside and tried to draw his claymore from his back. He gave up when he realized he was slowing down.

The troll swatted at Tom and threw him to the ground with just the brush of its fingertips. His head slammed against the earth and the impact made his vision blur and fill with stars. He scrabbled across the charred grass without knowing which way he was going. He just had to keep moving.

The next moment, felt something hit him so hard that the wind in his ears sounded like a hurricane. He tried to feel around the ground to grab the dirt and pull himself away from the troll, but he couldn't feel the ground. He couldn't feel anything actually. A sinking feeling overcame him.

He was dead, wasn't he?

He heard water splashing and then slammed into a wall with enough force to cause his vision to fade completely and his mind drift quickly into fuzzy and empty thoughts as he choked on the air and tried to move his arms and legs.

This was it. Four years in this line of work and he was dead. Fucking incredible. Free healthcare? Down the drain. That fat insurance check they'd write to the person in his will? What will? Job security? A chance to see the world and everything in it? Well, that wasn't really a future anymore. His friends, his boss, Ceria, nobody would really miss him. He would have sighed if he wasn't choking on air at the moment.

He didn't understand his thoughts. Wasn't death supposed to be peaceful? He couldn't feel anything, well, at least he couldn't feel anything but the warmth on his back and the pounding in his head. He thought it was weird how slow dying was, and how unaffected he was. It wasn't really all that bad without knowing beforehand that it was coming.

No fear, no anxiousness, no pain. Well, mental. His chest felt like somebody was stomping on it, and his throat felt like someone was pouring molten gold into his mouth. His vision flared with light and all sorts of things assaulted his senses. His nose hurt so badly that his eyes welled up with tears. His side burned with pain, and his entire torso flared with agonizing feelings, pressure, stabbing, hot pokers.

He'd rather live than die if this is what death was going to be like!

"...therfucker! Wake up! Breathe!" someone roared into Tom's ears. He felt something rising up his throat and then bubble out of his mouth. He turned his head and vomited hard, sucking in a short, painful breath. He was so cold.

"Breathe!" the voice yelled again, this time in a different tone. Tom sucked in another breath and then puked twice as much as before. He gagged and then his lungs filled with cold, crisp air. He wheezed and cried as his senses whirled in circles with all the information of everything around him flooding him all at once. He saw the ground to his left and the sky to his right, on his side with water lapping at his legs.

"Whay?" Tom managed to say hoarsely as he coughed and cried on the rocky, wet ground.

"What'd he say?" Veronica asked.

"It slapped your shit all the way off the cliff," Greg explained, taking Tom's arm with his hand. Tom screamed in pain and Greg almost threw the arm out of his grasp. Veronica just barely touched Tom's arm to see what was wrong, and it felt like someone had stabbed a hot poker through his bone down from his fingers to his elbow.

He threw up again and cried without any self restraint or limit. His sides hurt like someone was wedging him between two cars. His arm was on fire and felt swollen to the point of bursting. His head was throbbing. His throat felt dry and hot. He couldn't breathe out of his nose. One of his eyes was either swollen shut or gone. He couldn't tell.

"Stop!" he yelled.

"What? Stop what?" Veronica asked, sitting back away from him and brushing her long, wet hair out of her face with a look of concern written all over her features. She panted while Tom tried to remember what his hurting parts were called.

"Leg! Stop touching. God, fuck," Tom gasped, moaning in pain and frustration despite his best efforts.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Hold on." Veronica took Tom beneath the arms and dragged him up the rocky shore until he was out of and away from the water. The pain in his leg subsided somewhat and he breathed evenly for the first time since he was fully conscious. Tears still streamed down his cheeks and chin however.

"What's going on?" he asked, finally able to collect himself despite the throbbing, burning, and grating sensations all over his body. Harvey shined a flashlight over Tom's body and started to look concerned.

"Well," Greg said, trying to catch his breath. "The troll is dead, we've made sure of that. It knocked you so hard that you went over the chapel and landed in the water away from the rock the castle's on..." His eyes moved to Harvey and his brow suddenly furrowed. "Eh, what? Harvey?"

"Requesting immediate emergency airlift to the Wellington Hospital, London England... Room for two... Yes... As fast as you can get here... Yes sir... Tom sir... Yes... Three not including... Understood sir. Thank you sir..." Harvey hung up the cellphone and swallowed hard. "We've got two helicopters for you and Donalbain. Veronica will ride with you. Greg and I will be there as soon as we get things dealt with here."

"What?" Tom said dumbly, struggling to stay awake.

Harvey looked up at the sky expectantly. "Get here God damn you," he muttered, turning to walk back up the shore as he handed Greg his flashlight. "Get their attention when they arrive. I'll be up there when you're done."

"Alright," Greg replied.

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The time between lying on the cold, uncomfortable puddingstone beach at the base of Dùn Fhoithear and lying in a nice, warm bed of the Wellington Hospital was a blur to Tom. He remembered the helicopter, Veronica yelling at someone over Tom's arm, and a doctor telling a nurse that he wasn't going to make it two days.

Now, Tom sat flat on his warm, soft bed with a pillow under his head and a cast on his left arm and his right leg. Two of his fingers were taped together and his shirt lay open to reveal a long line of stitches from his third rib to his tenth. He couldn't breathe in any more than a shallow breath without either splitting his stitches or bending his ribs.

He had come to find out that nine of his ribs had been broken by the troll slapping him across the front, his fibula fractured somewhere along the way, and both his left radius and ulna snapped in half upon hitting the water. No brain damage, his lungs were fine, and his internal injuries were minimal. He did, however, now no longer have his own spleen or even have a gallbladder.

He was trying to keep his breathing under control with an oxygen mask when Veronica stepped into his little room with the Director behind her.

"You've got a visitor," she said, happily stepping out of the room at the Director's nod.

Tom would have sat up, but he knew adjusting himself would most likely cause an extraordinarily painful reaction from his ribs, so he just sat there on the bed and continued to breath through the mask, nodding to his boss.

"I half expected to see you asleep and in a full body cast," the Director said, pulling up a chair beside the bed to sit down.

"Sorry to disappoint you sir," Tom said with as little force as possible. His ribs were already moving too much with his breathing as it was.

The older man shook his head. "No, I was making a joke."

Tom's eyebrows raised, but he immediately lowered them as his eyebrow flared with stinging pain as he remembered the cut along the left side of his brow. "Really?"

"Enough joking," the Director said seriously. "How are you doing? They tell me you're 'stable' but I know better than to take a doctor for his word. Are you well?"

Tom took a longer breath from the oxygen mask and took it off his face. "I feel better than I did when I was in the water, sir. I heard I'm missing a few organs though." He smiled.

"We let your gallbladder go, but you do have a spleen in you again. Everything else was mangled to hell, so I've been told, but it's all still there and yours."

"So I keep hearing," Tom replied, rolling his eyes. "Was it you that bullied me to the top of the donor list?"

The Director shook his head. "The President did."

Tom's eyes went wide. "Really?"

"A hundred and thirty four years ago when this agency was founded. Everything we needed from Britain, Germany, and France would be given, and vice versa, no questions asked or complaints raised."

"You got my hopes up," Tom deadpanned.

"My job isn't to baby you, boy," the Director said as he put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. "I'm here to see if the Unites States' investments overseas are a waste of money or not. Get well. I need you back in the line of fire in a month."

"Yes sir," replied Tom as he bit back a large smile.

As soon as the Director was gone, Harvey, Veronica, and Greg entered the room and crowded around Tom's bed. The younger agent put the oxygen mask back on and nodded to their presence before speaking.

"Hey guys. How's everyone doing?"

"Fine, no thanks to you," Greg said, rapping his knuckles across Tom's clunky white cast.

"I'll be sure to lead the troll over to you next time, Greg," Tom shot back.

"You can keep it. Veronica loves cutting off troll heads though, right?"

The demon rolled her eyes. "Sure." She turned to Tom. "By the way, your sword broke. It was mostly my fault. Sorry."

Tom shook his head. "It doesn't matter. How are my guns? Did they make it?"

"They're packed and ready to be discharged with you when you're well enough to walk," Greg said, giving Tom a thumbs-up.

"Awesome. Uh, how's everybody else?"

Harvey looked at the other two before answering. "Two dead, two wounded. Otherwise, unscratched and unharmed."

"Two dead, huh?" Tom repeated dourly.

"It was almost three," Harvey added, putting his hand on Tom's head. "But you're good at denying Death his winnings."

"Thanks. I'll be sure to steal his money in our next dice game for this useless mortal coil," replied Tom jokingly. Harvey cracked a grin and rolled his eyes.

"We're staying close by if you need us. Just call if you need something. There's a meeting for debriefing we have to go to. We'll fill you in on what's what after the old man is through, alright?"

Tom nodded. "Later guys."

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Later, Allen showed up after visiting hours for a midnight visit. Tom was asleep when the Division Thirteen occultist entered the room, and was gently shaken awake to converse. Tom, groggy, tried to swat the intruder away and go back to sleep, thinking that Allen was another of the nurses trying to tell him to do something or draw blood or stick another needle in his shoulder.

However, Allen had his cast firmly in hand and wouldn't let it go until he had Tom's full attention. Pain flared through Tom's entire torso as the effects of swinging his arm crashed down upon him and woke him up completely.

And though it was midnight, the machines provided adequate light for Tom to see that Allen wasn't his normal, reserved self. The agent's eyes were wide, excited. Tom hoped that he would leave and let him be as his chest throbbed with pain.

"You're Tom? Please tell me yes."

"Allen? What the hell, I'm asleep. What time is it?"

"One in the morning, but that's unimportant. You're Tom?" Allen asked quickly, his eyes darting back and forth between Tom's eyes.

"Yeah, what the hell is it Allen?"

Allen grinned about as widely as his mouth would allow. "You've met...you've met her, right?"

"Who?" asked Tom, confused.

"Her! The most lovely, beautiful creature in all the realms of Heaven and Man and Hell! Tell me you understand now." Allen's wide, hopeful eyes betrayed no sarcasm or humor.

"Who? Give me a name Allen," Tom said flatly, getting back control of his arm.

"Ceria!" he exclaimed. "The most beautiful and wonderful creature known to my heart! Surely you've encountered her before, as I have been told?"

Tom arched a brow and then lay back down and closed his eyes, sighing. "Yeah, I've had the 'great pleasure' of making her acquaintance. Why do you ask?"

"Well, if I could have you arrange some sort of meeting between the two of us, a short introduction followed by a whirlwind of passion and lovemaking...I would be most obliged to give you a fabulous reward that would find your heart contented with its grandeur and splendor."

"Sure, whatever you want. Allen, it's late and I'm tired. Next time Ceria is in town, I'll call you up and bring her to you, alright?" Tom stated, his voice sardonic.