Raven

Chapter Two - Quills

Present Day

It is an unusually dark night, I notice, when I finally find them; a new moon, perhaps? I had been searching my father's high-tech and sterile white lab for a few consecutive days now, looking for a certain weapon that I had been fond of since I was about eleven, but tonight something oddly rustic in the sterile white of the lab catches my eye. I'm not meant to be in the laboratory at all, and am on edge as I look around, but I know that if I find these weapons I can take anyone in a fight. Maybe not ten of Dad's guards, though.

Despite my pale skin tone, in the black clothes I wear, I'm nearly invisible. However, I still have to be careful; Dad's guards have always been ruthless when capturing an intruder, and I know that I will be no exception, despite being the eldest child of "The Boss" himself. So, with curiosity getting the better of me, I decide to have a look at the wooden object. I get closer, and ...

It's a box. A freaking box.

Frowning, I stalk towards the pedestal, my sneaker-clad feet making little to no sound on the polished tiles (white, like everything else). It can't be. Some of father's most prized possessions, the five little daggers that I had nicknamed Quills, surely will not be so unguarded. But maybe they are, I think, raising my eyebrow slightly. Curious now to see what the simply carved timber holds, I ease open the smooth lid.

And find the Quills.

Smiling now, though I have a mental "wtf" moment because why would the Quills be so unguarded in such an obvious place, I finally manage a quiet whisper.

"Well, what do you know."

A few minutes later, I stand hidden in the shadows, biting the inside of my cheek to e myself into silence as I press myself against the wall. I really can't risk detection now, when I have almost made it out of my father's factory alive and with all of my extremeties still attached. I know what I will do once I got out, too; I would take the Quills (the entire reason I was in the lab in the first place), my costume, art supplies (I'm an artist at heart), and a change of clothes. Then, if not booking a motel, I would probably go live with my good friend Ha- er, what did he say to call him now? Aquaboy? No, um ... Acrobolt, that was it. I'd told him about three years ago, as a joke when we went to the same school (before dad took me back out and homeschooled both of his kids) to call me Raven. My favourite bird, the omen which I had found associated with what my father had said years ago. He'd seemed to take me seriously, though. So yes, I could probably bunk with him until I got a place with the considerable amount of cash I carried.

Mind to the moment, I think, hardly daring to breathe as I hear a noise in the distance. As the thought crosses my mind, I get the strangest feeling that someone nearby is thinking the same thing. I dismiss it quickly as my own imagination. Then, quite suddenly, I hear something; the sounds of a fight from the other end of the hall. For a moment, I freeze. But then, preparing myself physically and mentally, I draw one of the black daggers from the box, and narrow my eyes as I prepare to throw the razor-sharp blade. Suddenly, someone rounds the corner, and I freeze again, this time with the knife raised above my left shoulder.

"Well I'll be damned," says the person, a small grin appearing on his face. As I recognise what sounds to be an American accent lacing his words, a prickle of confusion makes me frown slightly. "It's everyone's favourite bird, with the commanders' goal for tonight."

I scowl, lowering the knife a little, but still ready to throw it if this masked boy - once my best friend - presented any danger to me. "Since when are you American, Harley?" I demand, voice coming off as slightly English, and Acrobolt laughs.

"Since it's my job. And it's Acrobolt, actually; cover names and all."

"You're still making no sense," I mutter under my breath. What the hell is he wearing? And what is an Acrobolt?  The thought crosses my mind, and I stifle a laugh. A white singlet with a blue 'A' on it, and denim shorts. Bare feet. I decide to give voice to my thoughts.

"Also; why are you wearing that?" I ask, expecting a smartass reply. But instead, he shrugs in the annoying way of his which I had almost forgotten in the years spent apart, and absent-mindedly touches a black gun holstered in the belt that he's wearing.

Oh, for God's sake. Rolling my eyes at his mysterious attitude, I look around. "I've got to get out of here, before I'm caught."

"Mm, how about no? Instead, let's test your skills, in battle!" Harley vanishes around the corner with a whoop.

Damn it, I think, now starting to become a little more than annoyed. He's going to give me away! I groan in defeat, tipping my head back for a moment to compose myself. But then I sigh, and walk after my taller friend with blades at the ready.

Rounding the corner, I stop, only able to blink in surprise for a moment. Three heavily armed guards are lying dead or unconscious on the marble floor, with purplish bruises already beginning to form on their faces. One man's neck is twisted at an odd angle, too, and I decide the sight of which isn't doing wonders for my stomach right now. I run down the hall, feet tapping on the stone in my haste, round the corner, and stop in my tracks, expression blank. Wow.

I always knew Harley was a complete and utter show-off with his acrobatic skills, but this display is nuts even by his standards. Either that or he was holding out on me. He flips on his hands thrice, comes upright and kicks the guard in the face. Ouch. I shake my head, giving a short, mirthless laugh, and thw other blonde turns back to look at me.

"Yes?" he asks, grinning.

"Um... that was quick?"

"They don't call me Acrobolt for nothing," he replies in a sing-song voice, looking rather pleased with himself. Once more, I raise an eyebrow, and glance around nervously, searching for the cameras. Did he even think to disable them? I wonder, and keep scanning the room intently. I sigh after a moment. There it is.

"Idiot," I mutter, shaking my head, as I notice the familiar, winking red light of one of my father's cameras, recording.

"Excuse me?" Acrobolt asks, looking somewhat offended.

I hiss for some reason (instinct, most likely), and glare at him. "The cameras. You forgot that minor detail, yes?"

Harley doesn't even blink. "Oops."

That is about when the alarms begin to wail. Wincing at the sudden noise that grates on my eardrums, I glance down at the silver watch that sits on my right wrist. Noting the position of its glowing hands, I sigh again. "Well, Acrobolt, we have about ... thirty seconds before dad's finest guards bust down the doors and we will be cornered. Think quickly, because I'm good with excuses. But you'll be on your own." As I say the "cover name" of my old friend, I can't help but have a note of exasperation enter my voice. "Twenty seconds."