fatal flaw, part V.
Title: Fatal Flaw
Chapter: 5 / 6
Characters: Fernando Torres / Sergio Ramos, Xabi Alonso / Steven Gerrard, David Silva / David Villa, Frank Lampard / John Terry, Raúl / Guti, Cesc Fàbregas, Fernando Gago, Iker Casillas, Xavi Hernández, Rubén de la Red, Pepe Reina, Daniel Agger, Sami Hyypiä, Gonzalo Higuaín, Didier Drogba, Santi Cazorla, Álvaro Arbeloa, Sergio "Kun" Agüero, Rafael Benítez, José Mourinho. Not all characters appear in every part and in equal measure.
Rating: R
Warnings: AU. Infrequent language, violence and sex.
Disclaimer: It's about superheroes - how real could it possibly be?
Summary: The Force is a group of superheroes determined to save the city of Despertia from the unfathomable and relentless attacks of villains Raúl and Guti. But sometimes it is the heroes who need to be saved from their own fatal flaws.
Notes: Based on a wonderful prompt by nahco3 at footie_exchange. Apologies to those who have already seen this.
Feedback > life. If you feel the need to give constructive criticism, please do.
Previous parts: Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV
It was incredible how quickly the waiters were bustling back to the kitchen, the glasses of champagne they carried on their trays disappearing and being slammed back down, empty, in the space of about a minute each time. Sergio saw the sweat on their foreheads, the hands trembling a little more with each round, as they frantically circled the room and turned their heads at each "Over here, waiter" and clicked finger.
It was therefore unsurprising to see most of his colleagues rapidly succumbing to the sweet inebriation they had been looking forward to ever since they'd received their invites, although he still felt embarrassed for them, and hoped that they would, too, once they woke up and remembered their silly smiles and stories that they shouldn't have told. Sergio himself stuck to juice. It was rather good juice, at that - probably not full of the anti-oxidants contained in the organic juice he liked to buy, but it was a damn sight better than alcohol. He was a man who liked to be in control of himself and his body, and he couldn't help shaking his head in pity as Iker stumbled up to him.
"Do forgive me if, in the future, I find it utterly impossible to take you seriously as my boss," Sergio said bemusedly as Iker grabbed his shoulder for support and swayed slightly, a vague frown plastered on his face.
"I don't have a choice," Iker slurred, looking around the room. "Tonight is the night that my career, as I know it, will end."
"What are you talking about?" Sergio asked impatiently, he too searching the room for some sign of what had incited Iker to down nine glasses in the first half-hour - and fuck knew how many since then. "And where is Hernández? I need to pee, but he told me stay here. Something about a speech?"
"Yeah, for that piece of crap who's probably going to take over my job," Iker muttered bitterly, lifting his head hopefully for a moment as a waiter passed, but grumbling again when he realised that the tray was full of empty glasses.
"You knew the company was going to get a proper CEO at some stage," Sergio said reasonably. "You're a COO, it's completely different - you're being paranoid for nothing."
"You're being paranoid for -"
"Ah, Fernando, there you are!" Sergio was rescued by Gago's arrival, his gorgeous date looking still more handsome with the body below decked out in a sharp suit. "Any idea when Hernández is going to show?"
Gago smiled that glorious smile which somehow made his eyes bigger rather than smaller, and Sergio fought the urge to plant a kiss on that self-satisfied mouth. "He's already here - he's just schmoozing with the new talent, I guess."
Iker rolled his eyes as he attempted to straighten up, failing rather miserably. "Talent? I think not," he said, over-articulating every word the way that drunk people often did when putting up a feeble façade of sobriety. "It was me who single-handedly brought this station back to the top of the TV ratings, and how does he thank me?"
"It was me, actually," Sergio huffed. "The only thing you did was delay my reports by a few extra hours for your stupid legal reasons."
"Well, you probably would have gotten arrested otherwise, turning up with guns and superhero costumes," Iker said, still distractedly glancing around the room. "How did you get all that stuff, again? I don't think you ever explained -"
"I did, I told you that Fernando here found it in a dumpster -"
"Sergio, you said you had to go to the bathroom, right?" Gago interrupted. "I'll come with. Bye, Mr. Casillas."
"Who's Mr - oh," Iker said absently. "Bye, then." Pausing for a second, he suddenly frowned at Gago. "Hang on - you're not the new CEO, are you?"
"Depends on how you look at it," Gago said mysteriously, as he grabbed Sergio's arm and steered him towards the bathrooms at the far side of the room, Sergio chuckling at how easy it was to confuse Iker after a few champagnes.
Sergio couldn't help loosening up a little with Gago next to him. But, smiling as he turned to speak, he found Gago doing an Iker and craning his head as he observed the room.
"Sergio, I'm just going to pop over there to speak to someone - an old friend," he said apologetically. "I'm yours for the rest of the night, though," he added, his voice dropping and sending a coursing rush of some indescribable warmth through Sergio's body.
Sergio didn't understand the pull that he felt towards Gago - why the nights always got a little better when he'd turn up, and a little darker when he'd leave. He harboured vague memories of life before Gago, of living on his own, of writing meaningless news reports that everyone would forget seconds after seeing them. Somehow, at some point, Gago had changed all of that, and Sergio was no longer alone in his life or in his work. If Gago hadn't turned up, black costumes in hand, ready to give him the story that would make him a household name, Sergio probably would have followed the likes of Arjen and Carles out the door. And that Gago miraculously turned out to be the man he'd needed next to him in bed, too - well, Sergio wasn't a great believer in luck, but it surely couldn't have been anything but.
Just as he was passing a crowd of flustered waiters blocking the way to the bathroom, his breath hitched in his throat. A familiar face was staring at him from inside the kitchen, making its way through the doorway and calling out his name, frantically, desperately trying to get his attention. Sergio swallowed, his heart suddenly thumping. He didn't know who the man was, but his features were buried somewhere in the back of his memory - he knew he'd seen them somewhere before, and the fear that surged through him had to mean something.
Suddenly very nervous, he instinctively turned away to look for Gago, but he had disappeared. Turning back, he saw with relief that the small chef had been stopped in his tracks by the waiters who were rushing in and out of the kitchen and swearing at each other as glasses of champagne wobbled threateningly. Sergio caught a last plaintive glance before slipping through the crowd and into the bathroom, his name being shouted out behind him by a voice he somehow knew had said that name many times before.
As he emerged from the cubicle, he gazed blankly at his own reflection, undeniably troubled. Where had he seen that man? Why did someone so small, so - so inconsequential, suddenly cause him to feel so terrified - of consequence, of his past, of something he must have forgotten? Did he do a report about him at some stage?
Don't be ridiculous, he thought angrily to himself, shaking his head, the man at the next sink turning to look at him with concern. Why would you have done a report on a stupid little caterer? He's nothing - he probably cooked your dinner at a restaurant sometime. Frustrated with himself, Sergio dried his hands roughly as he tried to scratch his confusing worries from his mind. But inside him was an aching emptiness, a void where he must have once had answers - which, he realised with the tiniest of shivers, reminded him of that same puzzling recognition, fear, perhaps even guilt, which hit him every time he looked at, or spoke about, or even so much as thought of Fernando Torres.
Sergio stopped suddenly as he realised that Xavi's speech had begun already, a crowd of people circling him as he spoke through two hours' worth of an alcohol burden.
"- a man whose qualifications meant that I had no choice but to beg him - and I almost did beg you, didn't I? - to take this job -"
Sergio's head quickly flicked in Iker's direction; he was glaring rather ferociously in Xavi's direction as his assistant, Rubén, patted his shoulder in an awkward attempt at sympathy.
"Come on, where are you hiding, Stevie? You cheeky little thing, come on!" Xavi reached over for another champagne as he searched the crowd. "Ah, there you are, you idiot! Come here - that's it, let everyone see who their new CEO is!"
Sergio remembered Steven Gerrard's name with a lurching stomach, his eyes fixated on that bashful smile, those humble words of thanks and "Oh, you shouldn't have" only vaguely registering as Xavi patted him on the back and handed him what was quite possibly the only bottle which had yet to be opened so far that night. It was Fernando, and that chef, all over again, as Sergio stood completely still and stared at the familiar face with that inexplicable combination of fear and shame. Steven's eyes traveled the length of the crowd, smiling and taking everything in, but faltering when they met Sergio's gaze, as if he, too, recognised that they had known each other before. But by the time Sergio had realised, Steven's stare had left him.
* * * * *
People could be so impossibly messy. Silva sighed softly as he leant against the wall next to the kitchen door, looking out into the emptying hall, the floor strewn with stray decorations and abandoned food, tablecloths soaked with drinks. Slow music was playing to deaf ears, filling the room with the meaningless words of sappy love that probably contributed more to the guests' exit than it did to any feelings of finality or repose.
The waiters were beginning to congratulate themselves on a relatively painless night, Santi still complaining about the numerous vegetarians who had snapped at him when he'd placed Canalons à la Barcelonesa on their tables, but nonetheless relieved that he'd gone a whole five hours without smashing a single glass. Silva gasped a little as another waiter burst past him through the doorway and stood on his foot - yet again, he remained unheard.
He turned his head as he heard a slight cough, Villa lurking near the freezer and looking at him with an awkward sort of expectation. Silva fought the urge to slip everything out - who he was, and what he did, and how much he wanted Villa and hated his job and felt betrayed by Sergio - but yet again, he remained unheard.
"Don't you have something to say?" Villa finally asked softly, as Silva closed his eyes in resignation. Opening them again, he stared at his oblivious lover for a moment, and with the slightest tilt of a head and imploring eyes, said his silent apology.
Villa smiled. "You know what? You're such a ridiculously sweet person all the time, I think you earned the right to a bitchy moment." As Silva blushed, Santi's complaints again filled the room. Villa chuckled. "Fuck knows Santi bitches enough for all of us."
As far as Silva was concerned, Villa had invited it upon himself with that concessive remark; Silva felt a strange surge of emotion in his stomach, and before he could stop himself, was saying, "I have to tell you something." He barely stopped a groan of frustration as he fought the will to kick himself and tear out his hair and swear loudly all at once.
"Yeah? What kind of 'something'?" Villa continued smiling, an encouraging sort of interest in his gaze. "Oh - is this 'something' the reason why you've been so worked up -"
He froze, and Silva again felt that momentary surge of panic every time Villa did anything even remotely out of the ordinary. Did he recognise him, before Silva had had the chance to reveal himself? Did he realise who he was and what he did? Was he suddenly filled with disgust and regret and horror at the fact that his lover was a miniscule, socially awkward perfectionist of a chef?
But Villa let out a shout when, within a second, the kitchen was filled with fire. Spreading from one corner, the flames joined cries of terror engulfing the small area as everyone panicked and frantically searched for the door in between streaks of orange and red.
Silva's mind flew from Villa to Raúl and Guti and back. Trying desperately to act just as confused as the others, as though he too had no idea how unlit stovetops and ovens could suddenly catch fire, he fought through the flames and absently noted screams from the main hall as well. The panic was rampant, the burning chaos spreading quickly, blinding him as he waded through the mess to get to Villa.
His first thought had been right, however. His path towards his lover was blocked by two figures, dark-haired and blonde, slight and untroubled by the anarchy around them.
"Oh, come now," Raúl said disparagingly. "You don't think we're going to let you go that easily, surely."
Silva's horror at his identity being so easily revealed to his adversaries was dulled by the glimpse through the flames that he caught, with mounting panic, of Villa lying on the floor, barely moving. In the instant that it took Silva to vanish and reappear by Villa's side, water was spilling from the ceiling in a futile effort to calm the raging fire below, Raúl's splutters of surprise just audible through it all.
As quickly as the fire had risen and spread along with the screams that accompanied it, Silva had disappeared with Villa and slouched, coughing, against a wall in a nearby alleyway. Vague shouts and crashing noises were floating in from the main street as Silva ignored the dizziness in his head and cradled Villa's body, completely still and covered in ash.
* * * * *
The only sounds that Gago could hear so early in the morning were the songs of the occasional bird and the crunching of the dried leaves coating the path under his feet. It was strange to return to this street and find it so unfamiliar, his memories of it fuzzy and surreal, as though he was looking at it now through the filter of a dream. Nonetheless, as he continued to walk, his heart began to race as little moments jolted back.
As he passed the old bench where the old men liked to sit and feed the birds, he was reminded of long summer days in his childhood, selling bad lemonade on the side of the road, and that rush of delight he'd felt when a nice lady had generously paid $2 instead of the customary $1 for a cup. The rattling of his tin piggy-bank crowded his ponderings, along with the glee he had felt when he realised, one day, that he'd saved up enough to buy more sugar for more lemonade - profits enabling the business cycle of a ten-year-old lemonade-maker to continue until the sun began to disappear behind growing clouds, and summer would end.
He edged closer to the orphanage, the slight breeze catching against his shirt and bringing back memories of the first of January each year, when the annual pile of new clothes would arrive, fresh and clean and ironed and reminding them that they were a little bigger, a little closer to escaping and becoming something more than unwanted children.
He looked down as he walked, staring at his expensive Italian shoes and reflecting upon how much things had changed in just a few days. As big as the risk was, allowing himself to be exposed to the ruthlessness and power lust of Raúl and Guti, the little boy inside him felt that he had little choice. Money was at once a terrible and wonderful incentive, forcing you to cross boundaries and hurt people in exchange for a proper home, three meals a day, clothes on your back. And most importantly, Gago remembered with a rush of affection, for Sergio. If he had ignored that phone call, decided not to turn up to that apartment, declined that tempting offer, he would still be living with his amnesiac grandmother who barely recognised him and certainly didn't care to treat him like a member of the family, surviving on a kebab every two nights, sleeping on the floor of a tiny flat crawling with rats and cockroaches - his only company.
The building finally appeared as Gago passed an old tree. Huge, blocking out the fragments of early sunlight which tried to creep over its roof, his childhood home immediately seemed to shrink him, turning him back into a small child. Swallowing hard, he briskly headed over to the mailbox and opened it with trembling fingers, dropping an envelope inside before turning to give the house one last glance.
* * * * *
"With the city currently focused on the horrific events of last night and the suspected terrorist role played by the Force, it's a pleasure to report that this morning, Beckham House, the largest orphanage in the city, was the recipient of an anonymous cheque in the mail for one hundred thousand dollars. The orphanage, infamously short of funds for the past three years, has not received any information as to which generous individual is behind the donation. Verda TV's Steve Finnan gives us this report from Despertia's west side."
Xabi was watching the report with dull interest, reflecting numbly on his excellent editing, when Steven burst out of their bedroom, suitcase in hand.
Xabi sighed. "I suppose there's no point asking you to call once you've settled in."
"Not really," Steven replied shortly.
Xabi bristled at Steven's bluntness. He had woken up to a scrawled note ("They've given me an apartment closer to work - I'm moving out") and learnt of Steven's new job when he'd walked into his office that morning and Pepe had pounced on him with the news and questions that Xabi barely had time to process, let alone answer.
"Are you going to be at the meeting tomorrow?"
"Of course I'll be at the meeting," Steven said defiantly, but without meeting Xabi's eyes.
Silva walked in from the second bedroom, his mask pushed up onto his head, looking exhausted but infinitely calmer than he had been when he'd turned up in the middle of the night. He froze in his black costume as he looked up and realised that there was a discussion going on.
"I'm sorry," he began, "I'll just go back and -"
"No, don't bother," Xabi said wearily as Silva made to turn back around. "Steven's just leaving."
He saw Silva biting his lip as Steven glanced at him briefly.
"Is he alright?" Steven asked, looking at the floor.
"I think so," Silva said hesitantly. "You helped a lot. But he's still not waking up."
"Why are you -?" Xabi began.
"I still haven't told him who - who I am," Silva said, blushing slightly. "I figured I should stay in costume so that when he wakes up . . . well . . . so that he won't get a nasty shock," he finished with difficulty.
"You should probably take him to the hospital," Steven said briskly, his advice so much more mechanical than that which Xabi was used to. The Steven who insisted upon sticking around whenever his colleagues were hurt, whose only concern seemed to be the wellbeing of his friends, was somehow pushed into the distance by a businesslike tone and clenched jaw.
In the silence of the room, Xabi sighed yet again. "I don't believe you, Steven."
Steven looked up at him sharply before again diverting his eyes. "Doctors know better than I do why he's still asleep -"
"I know Gago's been near you. I know you've seen him."
"I told you, I don't know any such Gago," Steven said irritably. "The only time I've seen him was in Higuaín's office, in that photo."
"There's no point in lying, Steven! Fernando told me, and I know that you wouldn't be acting like -"
"Yes, well, Fernando's in prison, whereas I've just landed the best job in the city, so it doesn't take fucking Stephen Hawking to figure out who's lying."
"You only landed the best job in the city because of Gago," Xabi said in a low, shaking voice, trying desperately not to shout his frustration.
"I am qualified for the position, you do realise?"
"It's not about being qualified. Fucking hell, Steven, a few days ago you were too lazy to get off your ass to turn off the TV set, and now you're -"
A horn sounded from the street outside the apartment building.
Steven quickly gathered his wallet and phone, and turned to the door. "That's my taxi," he said simply.
"What about Sergio?"
Steven looked back, confusion clearly written on his expression. "Sergio?"
"Sergio - can you tell us anything about him? Is he planning to do more reports, to tell the police stuff - do you have any idea what he's -"
"It's not my job to hang around with the reporters. I can't help you."
Xabi spluttered. "Steven, if you're going to work there, you might as well try helping us! Figure out what's been going on, how much he's told Gago -"
"I'm already doing all I can for the Force. Sergio's no longer a part of it, so there's no reason for me to go chasing him around. So Gago's been near him - big deal. I can't stop that, so there's nothing that says I should try and get involved."
Xabi laughed humourlessly, gazing at Steven in bewilderment. "And here I was thinking that you'd changed, having gotten a fancy new job and everything. But no, you're still the same selfish, lazy Steven Gerrard -"
"I have to go."
And, ignoring Xabi's protests, he walked out, leaving Xabi standing nonplussed in the living room, Silva looking on.
"He's obviously been too far controlled and is honestly oblivious to what's happened to him," Silva said as the sound of an engine grew more distant. "Rafa told me that Gago's power works best on people who don't see him coming, so if Stevie met him before we even thought of Gago, and possibly even a few times after that -"
"But then why haven't they found the rest of us? Why are you and I still standing here, instead of knee-deep in fire somewhere - or drowning - or worse, at fucking Stentor with Sergio?"
"I don't know," Silva said with a helpless shrug.
"We have to protect ourselves," Xabi said, trying to gather his thoughts and push his emotions aside to allow for rational decision-making. "I can't stay here - you can't stay here. We have to go to headquarters and - oh, fuck, we probably can't even go there, can we?"
"I'm going to need to take David to the hospital first," Silva said quickly.
"Yeah, okay, whatever," Xabi said distractedly. "Fuck, this is too complicated. I mean, if he's still coming to meetings, then why would he put us in danger? They've already got Sergio on their side now - but it looks like he hasn't told them where headquarters is, either . . . Or maybe he has, and they're just waiting . . . But waiting for what? They have Steven, Fernando's in jail -"
"I'm going to get him out," Silva interrupted.
Xabi looked up, his panicky mind jolting to a stop. "José explicitly said not to."
"I know, but let's face it - we've lost Sergio, and I honestly think we've lost Steven, too. We need all the manpower we can get, and Fernando's not helping anyone if he's locked up."
Xabi thought for a few seconds, aware of Silva's tapping foot and his glances back towards the bedroom where Villa still lay unconscious. "Do you trust José?"
Silva frowned. "Trust him? Of course I trust -"
"Not in that way," Xabi said quickly. "I just mean - he was in charge when everything went wrong at New Year's. He couldn't predict that Raúl and Guti would turn out, well, the way they did. He knew about Gago all along, but he only just told Rafa."
"What's your point?"
"I just think that maybe - maybe he doesn't know what he's doing," Xabi said in a rush. "I don't know if we should trust his judgement. He's been wrong at the most important times, and -"
"So I'll go and get Fernando."
"Yeah," Xabi nodded. "I guess you should. I know José said that it'd be dangerous, but -"
"It'd be more dangerous not to." Silva wearily pushed his mask back onto his face as he turned back towards the bedroom. "I'll just go to the hospital first."
* * * * *
Frank scratched his wrist absently as John leaned over.
"I got us a reservation at Amphoras for tomorrow night," John whispered, as Frank bristled uncomfortably. "I thought they might be closed - you know, because of the fire - but I guess they need the money, because they're only closed tonight, and tomorrow they'll be -"
"Shut up, John," Frank hissed, trying not to move his mouth too much. "Not here!"
John sighed and straightened up again, and the eyes of several reporters flew from him back to Drogba. Frank twitched a little as his phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. Now was not the time for socialising, he thought grimly.
"Now that you have confirmed the Force as your primary suspects, do you have any further clues as to the real-life identities of these men?"
Frank noticed Drogba wince a little at the question. "We have our suspicions, and we're working on following them up. We are not willing to reveal our plans to the press at the present moment - it would be neither safe nor useful."
Frank's phone buzzed again. He fished it out and looked at the caller ID - the police station. Shoving it impatiently back into his pocket, he ignored John's raised eyebrows and coughed pointedly as he refocused his attention. But the station called again, so Frank excused himself and slid around to the side while the press remained unflappably enthralled by Drogba's statement.
John had followed him, and stared curiously as Frank listened to the officer on the end of the line in complete silence, feeling his mouth opening.
"What's he saying?"
Frank flapped a hand to tell John to be quiet, before hanging up the phone, knowing that his face probably reflected how stunned he felt.
"It's - it's Torres," Frank said blankly. "He's escaped."
"What? That idiot, escaped?"
"He disappeared. Like, one minute he was there, and he was gone the next."
John looked at him as though he were communicating with a two-year-old. "Lampsy. He's fuckin' invisible, isn't he?"
"No, he disappeared. Like, he's not in the bloody cell anymore." Frank looked agitatedly towards the press, to whom Drogba was still speaking, as John gaped at him.
"Blimey. Didn't know he could disappear as well as turn invisible."
Frank shook his head, trying to think clearly. "Joe just told me that some bloke in black suddenly appeared in the cell, grabbed Torres' arm, and vanished. Went somewhere."
"Do they know who the other guy is?"
"No, he was in one of those bloody masks, wasn't he?" Inhaling deeply, Frank steered John back towards the cameras and microphones. "Look, don't act like anything's wrong. We'll tell the boss once he's done, alright?"
"Ooh, I like it when you tell me what to do," John said with a cheeky smile, and Frank let go of his arm with a glare.
The press call only lasted another couple of minutes, with reporters still hassling Drogba for information - information which Frank knew he couldn't give them. The only lead they had was Xabi Alonso, who seemed to be hiding something, but merely looking at a guy and thinking he was a bit dodgy wasn't enough to go stamping his name on the next day's papers.
"I have nothing more to say, thank you for your time, good day," Drogba at last said hurriedly, turning to roll his eyes at Frank and John. Frank hesitated to break the news to his clearly exhausted boss, thinking that it would perhaps be more tactful to wait until he'd gotten a well-earned cup of coffee before telling him that their security guards had failed spectacularly at their job. But John, clearly, thought otherwise.
"Torres has broken out, sir! Well, not 'broken out', exactly - that sort of makes it sound like he's got pimples or something, doesn't it? Although he does have a few, to be honest. But yeah, 'broken out' - no, he didn't break the bars or anything. One of the other blokes - you know, in the black, those shifty types - one of them came and got him! Like, literally came in, and got him. Grabbed him and disappeared. Into thin air. Like a ghost. Oh, wait, do ghosts disappear?"
"It was another member of the Force, sir," Frank said, gazing at his boss with wide, anxious eyes. Drogba didn't respond, but merely stared back, his eyes flicking from John to Frank frantically. "I'm not sure why they waited until now to get him, if it is that they've been able to do this all along, but, uhm, yes. He's no longer in his cell."
Drogba inhaled sharply, turning his head quickly to ensure that none of the media's busybodies was listening in. "Do they have any clue where he's gone?" he asked stiffly.
Frank shook his head. "We don't even know who the other bloke is. A really small guy, apparently, so definitely not Alonso."
Drogba bit his lip and nodded slowly, staring ahead blankly, Frank watching him attentively. His usually tough, no-nonsense exterior had vanished, if only for a moment. "Well," he said simply. "I didn't see that coming."
* * * * *
"I thought you said Silva was the flyer?" Raúl spat.
"I thought he was."
"Did you do any research?"
"It's not my job to do research, Raúl. If you were so concerned about who Silva was, you should have stalked him yourself."
"I told you Fàbregas was the flyer," Gago interjected quietly.
"Stalked him myself?" Raúl continued, ignoring Gago. "Did you even go near him in the first place?"
"It's not my job to do that!"
"We don't have jobs. Tell me, when did I ever fucking write out a job description for you? We do what needs to be done. If you think we don't know enough about a guy, you go and do your fucking homework."
"What have you been doing, then, if you're so fucking resourceful?"
"Oh, I don't know, trying to figure out how to get things back on track?"
Gago raised his hand as though he were a child wanting to speak in a classroom. "Uhm, question: why did you call me over?"
Raúl snapped his head around, Guti still staring daggers at him and looking as though he had several more things to say. "It's time to use Sergio properly," Raúl said sharply. "As leverage."
Gago's mouth opened a fraction and his finger twitched just slightly by his side. "Are you talking about the charity thing?"
"These guys are clever. We can't wait any longer than a few months, they'll probably have us figured out by then."
"So use Fàbregas!" Gago all but spluttered. "Or - or any of the others!"
"Oh, developing feelings for your long-haired project, are you?"
"He's not a project," Gago muttered.
"We need him. You knew we would at some point, don't act all wounded now -"
"You said you wouldn't hurt him."
Raúl paused. "We never guaranteed anything."
The silence in the room was thick, almost penetrable, as both Guti and Gago glared at Raúl with different types of anger and disbelief behind their eyes.
"Don't think about trying to control us, by the way," Raúl continued dangerously. "We have provisions for that - notes, warnings written around this apartment - if you try anything. We'll still be able to fry your little -"
"Threats aren't necessary," Gago said tersely.
"I hope they're not."
"What about Alonso?" Guti asked Raúl, his question something of a challenge. "He's the only one we haven't even tried to get."
"We tried, of course we tried!" Raúl argued irritably. "What do you think we got hold of Gerrard for, if not to get to Alonso?"
"We need to be more direct, that's all I'm saying."
"Well, that's what I'm trying to say as well, if you'd just shut up for a minute and let me finish!"
Guti seemed to struggle internally for a second, clenching his jaw, looking as though he was trying to choose between walking away, screaming, and hitting Raúl. He did nothing, however, and Gago's eyes swung back to Raúl.
"Fine," Gago said shortly. "Tell me what you want, and I'll do it."
Raúl looked somewhat relieved. "We will double your pay for this."
"We will?" Guti snapped.
Raúl ignored him. "I want to see those bastards, and their fucking coaches, looking just like this kid here."
Kun jumped as Raúl turned and kicked his chair. His wrists and ankles bound to the hard wood, Kun was jerked out of his distractions and reminded of where he was, and his muscles began throbbing again.
* * * * *
If it was hard to remain silent and unmoving throughout the meeting, it was downright painful to have to remain standing the entire time - his rather cushioned chair would have given him away immediately if he'd tried to sit down, no matter how much his body was aching for a proper rest. Xabi had generously offered him the bed the night before, but Fernando could no longer ask for any more favours, and argued that he was perfectly happy to sleep on the hard wooden floor of their lonely motel room.
He was paying for it today, however, and he longed to stretch widely under his cover of invisibility (they had yet to pluck up the courage to tell Rafa and José that they'd disobeyed their order to leave Fernando in his cell). But his body always tended to crack when he moved - his knees, neck and shoulders were bound to make a telltale sound if he dared. He had a fleeting wish that everyone would break out into a huge argument, screaming and cursing at each other, so that he could crack his hip just slightly and then maybe it would stop feeling so numb - but his colleagues were more silent than he had ever heard them in his few short months of being one of them.
"It's clear that this charity event is going to be a target of theirs, if not the ultimate target of their entire plan," Rafa explained to the room, every eye watching him intently. "Cesc has gotten almost all the details for us."
He nodded at Cesc, who gave a small, reluctant smile. Fernando could tell that Gago had gone to work on him. He was wearing the same determined look that Steven had, as if to prove that there was nothing wrong with him, that there weren't holes in his memory, emotions and thoughts that he couldn't trace. The same blankness and mild confusion lay behind his gaze as he looked across at Rafa. Fernando observed all this with a constant twinge of sadness in his chest, knowing that Sergio's oblivion was so much greater, and so much more painful.
"We have to be completely prepared, but at the same time, completely hidden. This means that none of you can be seen in public again."
Fernando's first thought was a half-hope that this statement would cause all of them to break into shouts of protest, but they merely stared darkly back, as though they had predicted the order and were hardly surprised to have been told such a thing.
"I understand that for some of you, this will be hard." Rafa glanced in Steven's direction before looking at Xabi as well, both of their expressions unreadable. "But given the - situation, I don't think any of you can dispute what I'm saying. It's not only your own safety, after all, but potentially the safety of the entire city."
Fernando suppressed an ironic chuckle as he saw Xabi's jaw tighten. He knew that Xabi would never voluntarily abandon his job without very good reason. A workaholic like that would collapse under the strain of burdensome emptiness for three months - it was ludicrous, what Rafa was suggesting. Fernando doubted Steven would sacrifice his new job - and new apartment - either. But for appearance's sake, the two ex-lovers kept their disagreement silent.
"Over the next few weeks, we are going to arm ourselves against any possible obstacle that Raúl and Guti can throw at us. We've all had considerable experience with them already - more than we'd like, anyway - and with José's knowledge far outweighing ours, we should be able to combat what will undoubtedly be crude attempts at destruction at that charity event."
José said nothing, looking mutinous as he sat beside Rafa and let his peer take charge. His eyes flew from one student to another. Perhaps he was assessing them, or trying to figure them out, or simply wondering how it was all going so wrong so fast, yet again. Fernando sympathised - it must have been hard on the man to see his troops falling apart for the second time in less than a year.
"Xabi, I think your idea of renting out motel rooms is a very sensible -"
"We can't all afford that," Silva muttered.
"I'll pay," Steven said, his offer less voluntary than it was resigned. "I'll be making enough."
Everyone looked at him for a second, grateful and surprised, before Rafa spoke again. "You'll have to stay in motels too, Steven -"
"How are you going to get enough money to pay for all of that if you don't turn up to your job?" Xabi asked Steven directly, his voice cold. "It's not like you had any savings before."
"I'll have enough to pay," Steven said tersely, still looking at Rafa. Yes, Fernando thought, he's definitely going to keep turning up at work. Sorry Rafa, but three months is a long time.
"I have a question," Cesc asked warily, glancing from Steven to Rafa to see if the silence was more than a short pause in conversation. They both raised their eyebrows at him. "Uhm, it's just that, well - if we suddenly disappear, won't people notice? Three months is a long time." Damn straight, Fernando nodded to himself.
"Exactly," Xabi jumped in again. "Not only will it completely mess with our families and colleagues if we just drop off the face of the earth, but it'd look pretty suspicious, I'd say!"
"Not to mention Drogba," José spoke for the first time. Rafa's head whirled around and he stared at his partner. José shrugged. "The police, you know, they'd set up search parties and missing persons units, and then when they fail to find us, they'll put us on their hit-list. Wanted: dead or alive, etcetera, etcetera."
"They can't reasonably jump to any conclusions about our activities just because we go missing for a few weeks," Rafa protested.
José looked back incredulously. "You know they can. You know that Drogba can."
Everyone was staring at the coaches, Silva blinking furiously, clearly thinking hard. "Uhm, am I missing something here? Is there a reason why your conversation has suddenly become Drogba-centric?"
"No -"
"Yes," José interrupted Rafa. "He used to be one of you."
The silence was close to overwhelming, and Fernando tried his hardest not to breathe, noticing Xabi's eyes flicking in his direction briefly.
"He left after - after the whole catastrophe," José continued. "They all left. He was probably the most valuable, but he swore he'd never have anything to do with us -"
"Look, it's all just irrelevant," Rafa asserted. "So what if he was a superhero? The only problem he poses to us is that he's greatly mistrusting of us, which could be said about anyone these days, let's face it -"
"You know his threat is greater than that," José said firmly.
"It's not a threat. If anything, it's a virtue - it means that society is better protected -"
"And we're more at risk than ever! How do you think he found Fernando? Instinct? It's only a matter of time before he gets back into it seriously and starts turning up everywhere we go."
"What's your point, José? Whether we go into hiding or not, he can use his ability against us. So I don't see where you're going -"
"Neither do we!" Xabi said angrily. "Can one of you please enlighten us already?"
Rafa sighed. "Drogba can see into the future," he said resignedly into the increasingly tense silence. "He predicts things, he can see where people are going to be, what they'll be doing, who they'll be with. Once, he had huge amounts of control over his power - he could predict almost anything at will. We're thinking that since he's let it go, he's not quite so astute anymore -"
"You keep telling yourself that, Rafa," José snapped. "He'll do anything to foil us, you know that - you know how he hates us and everything we do. He can't have found Fernando unless he was using his power!"
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Silva spoke up, his eyes flicking around frantically as he tried to make sense of it all. "Didier Drogba, Sergeant Didier Drogba, has a vendetta against us as well as insider knowledge?" He looked up, staring around the room. "Is nobody else completely panicked by this?"
"He doesn't have insider knowledge," José said. "This place wasn't always headquarters, and I've moved house as well since then, so really, he doesn't know where we are -"
"But he knows who you are!"
"Well, yes. But since Arsène died, and Scolari quit, well, I guess he thinks that I quit as well," José said with a shrug. "Look, I'm not pretending that this isn't a huge problem. I just want you all to be on your guard and make sure that I'm the only person whose name he knows for sure. It's bad enough having those three slimeballs on our tails - we don't need the police after us, too. Keep his suspicions at mere speculation, and nothing more. Going into hiding would be a huge mistake. We don't need any more Fernando's."
"We won't have any more Fernando's," Rafa said firmly to the heroes, who were all staring back, wide-eyed and breathless. "We're better prepared this time. As long as we're smart and careful, we'll come out on top, I promise you."
But as much as Rafa and José continued to try and reassure their troops in between their own arguments, Fernando could feel the tension tangibly mounting in the room. After getting over the initial shock that Drogba had used prophecy to find him on that rainy night, Fernando found himself filled with a quiet horror. No matter how they tried to hide, Drogba could always find them, in his mind, his dreams - however it was that he got his visions. And however much Rafa tried to convince them otherwise, it seemed unlikely that Drogba would be able to continue using his power so sparingly if he did indeed harbour such resentment towards his former family.
As wristwatches beeped on the hour and the meeting split up, Fernando forget all about stretching in the renewed noise of the room. His only thought was that their enemies now seemed to come at them from all angles. And what frightened him most was that the newest appeared to have a genuine reason for hating them - a horrific betrayal by the men he once worked alongside, in the Force.
Part VI
Chapter: 5 / 6
Characters: Fernando Torres / Sergio Ramos, Xabi Alonso / Steven Gerrard, David Silva / David Villa, Frank Lampard / John Terry, Raúl / Guti, Cesc Fàbregas, Fernando Gago, Iker Casillas, Xavi Hernández, Rubén de la Red, Pepe Reina, Daniel Agger, Sami Hyypiä, Gonzalo Higuaín, Didier Drogba, Santi Cazorla, Álvaro Arbeloa, Sergio "Kun" Agüero, Rafael Benítez, José Mourinho. Not all characters appear in every part and in equal measure.
Rating: R
Warnings: AU. Infrequent language, violence and sex.
Disclaimer: It's about superheroes - how real could it possibly be?
Summary: The Force is a group of superheroes determined to save the city of Despertia from the unfathomable and relentless attacks of villains Raúl and Guti. But sometimes it is the heroes who need to be saved from their own fatal flaws.
Notes: Based on a wonderful prompt by nahco3 at footie_exchange. Apologies to those who have already seen this.
Feedback > life. If you feel the need to give constructive criticism, please do.
Previous parts: Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV
It was incredible how quickly the waiters were bustling back to the kitchen, the glasses of champagne they carried on their trays disappearing and being slammed back down, empty, in the space of about a minute each time. Sergio saw the sweat on their foreheads, the hands trembling a little more with each round, as they frantically circled the room and turned their heads at each "Over here, waiter" and clicked finger.
It was therefore unsurprising to see most of his colleagues rapidly succumbing to the sweet inebriation they had been looking forward to ever since they'd received their invites, although he still felt embarrassed for them, and hoped that they would, too, once they woke up and remembered their silly smiles and stories that they shouldn't have told. Sergio himself stuck to juice. It was rather good juice, at that - probably not full of the anti-oxidants contained in the organic juice he liked to buy, but it was a damn sight better than alcohol. He was a man who liked to be in control of himself and his body, and he couldn't help shaking his head in pity as Iker stumbled up to him.
"Do forgive me if, in the future, I find it utterly impossible to take you seriously as my boss," Sergio said bemusedly as Iker grabbed his shoulder for support and swayed slightly, a vague frown plastered on his face.
"I don't have a choice," Iker slurred, looking around the room. "Tonight is the night that my career, as I know it, will end."
"What are you talking about?" Sergio asked impatiently, he too searching the room for some sign of what had incited Iker to down nine glasses in the first half-hour - and fuck knew how many since then. "And where is Hernández? I need to pee, but he told me stay here. Something about a speech?"
"Yeah, for that piece of crap who's probably going to take over my job," Iker muttered bitterly, lifting his head hopefully for a moment as a waiter passed, but grumbling again when he realised that the tray was full of empty glasses.
"You knew the company was going to get a proper CEO at some stage," Sergio said reasonably. "You're a COO, it's completely different - you're being paranoid for nothing."
"You're being paranoid for -"
"Ah, Fernando, there you are!" Sergio was rescued by Gago's arrival, his gorgeous date looking still more handsome with the body below decked out in a sharp suit. "Any idea when Hernández is going to show?"
Gago smiled that glorious smile which somehow made his eyes bigger rather than smaller, and Sergio fought the urge to plant a kiss on that self-satisfied mouth. "He's already here - he's just schmoozing with the new talent, I guess."
Iker rolled his eyes as he attempted to straighten up, failing rather miserably. "Talent? I think not," he said, over-articulating every word the way that drunk people often did when putting up a feeble façade of sobriety. "It was me who single-handedly brought this station back to the top of the TV ratings, and how does he thank me?"
"It was me, actually," Sergio huffed. "The only thing you did was delay my reports by a few extra hours for your stupid legal reasons."
"Well, you probably would have gotten arrested otherwise, turning up with guns and superhero costumes," Iker said, still distractedly glancing around the room. "How did you get all that stuff, again? I don't think you ever explained -"
"I did, I told you that Fernando here found it in a dumpster -"
"Sergio, you said you had to go to the bathroom, right?" Gago interrupted. "I'll come with. Bye, Mr. Casillas."
"Who's Mr - oh," Iker said absently. "Bye, then." Pausing for a second, he suddenly frowned at Gago. "Hang on - you're not the new CEO, are you?"
"Depends on how you look at it," Gago said mysteriously, as he grabbed Sergio's arm and steered him towards the bathrooms at the far side of the room, Sergio chuckling at how easy it was to confuse Iker after a few champagnes.
Sergio couldn't help loosening up a little with Gago next to him. But, smiling as he turned to speak, he found Gago doing an Iker and craning his head as he observed the room.
"Sergio, I'm just going to pop over there to speak to someone - an old friend," he said apologetically. "I'm yours for the rest of the night, though," he added, his voice dropping and sending a coursing rush of some indescribable warmth through Sergio's body.
Sergio didn't understand the pull that he felt towards Gago - why the nights always got a little better when he'd turn up, and a little darker when he'd leave. He harboured vague memories of life before Gago, of living on his own, of writing meaningless news reports that everyone would forget seconds after seeing them. Somehow, at some point, Gago had changed all of that, and Sergio was no longer alone in his life or in his work. If Gago hadn't turned up, black costumes in hand, ready to give him the story that would make him a household name, Sergio probably would have followed the likes of Arjen and Carles out the door. And that Gago miraculously turned out to be the man he'd needed next to him in bed, too - well, Sergio wasn't a great believer in luck, but it surely couldn't have been anything but.
Just as he was passing a crowd of flustered waiters blocking the way to the bathroom, his breath hitched in his throat. A familiar face was staring at him from inside the kitchen, making its way through the doorway and calling out his name, frantically, desperately trying to get his attention. Sergio swallowed, his heart suddenly thumping. He didn't know who the man was, but his features were buried somewhere in the back of his memory - he knew he'd seen them somewhere before, and the fear that surged through him had to mean something.
Suddenly very nervous, he instinctively turned away to look for Gago, but he had disappeared. Turning back, he saw with relief that the small chef had been stopped in his tracks by the waiters who were rushing in and out of the kitchen and swearing at each other as glasses of champagne wobbled threateningly. Sergio caught a last plaintive glance before slipping through the crowd and into the bathroom, his name being shouted out behind him by a voice he somehow knew had said that name many times before.
As he emerged from the cubicle, he gazed blankly at his own reflection, undeniably troubled. Where had he seen that man? Why did someone so small, so - so inconsequential, suddenly cause him to feel so terrified - of consequence, of his past, of something he must have forgotten? Did he do a report about him at some stage?
Don't be ridiculous, he thought angrily to himself, shaking his head, the man at the next sink turning to look at him with concern. Why would you have done a report on a stupid little caterer? He's nothing - he probably cooked your dinner at a restaurant sometime. Frustrated with himself, Sergio dried his hands roughly as he tried to scratch his confusing worries from his mind. But inside him was an aching emptiness, a void where he must have once had answers - which, he realised with the tiniest of shivers, reminded him of that same puzzling recognition, fear, perhaps even guilt, which hit him every time he looked at, or spoke about, or even so much as thought of Fernando Torres.
Sergio stopped suddenly as he realised that Xavi's speech had begun already, a crowd of people circling him as he spoke through two hours' worth of an alcohol burden.
"- a man whose qualifications meant that I had no choice but to beg him - and I almost did beg you, didn't I? - to take this job -"
Sergio's head quickly flicked in Iker's direction; he was glaring rather ferociously in Xavi's direction as his assistant, Rubén, patted his shoulder in an awkward attempt at sympathy.
"Come on, where are you hiding, Stevie? You cheeky little thing, come on!" Xavi reached over for another champagne as he searched the crowd. "Ah, there you are, you idiot! Come here - that's it, let everyone see who their new CEO is!"
Sergio remembered Steven Gerrard's name with a lurching stomach, his eyes fixated on that bashful smile, those humble words of thanks and "Oh, you shouldn't have" only vaguely registering as Xavi patted him on the back and handed him what was quite possibly the only bottle which had yet to be opened so far that night. It was Fernando, and that chef, all over again, as Sergio stood completely still and stared at the familiar face with that inexplicable combination of fear and shame. Steven's eyes traveled the length of the crowd, smiling and taking everything in, but faltering when they met Sergio's gaze, as if he, too, recognised that they had known each other before. But by the time Sergio had realised, Steven's stare had left him.
* * * * *
People could be so impossibly messy. Silva sighed softly as he leant against the wall next to the kitchen door, looking out into the emptying hall, the floor strewn with stray decorations and abandoned food, tablecloths soaked with drinks. Slow music was playing to deaf ears, filling the room with the meaningless words of sappy love that probably contributed more to the guests' exit than it did to any feelings of finality or repose.
The waiters were beginning to congratulate themselves on a relatively painless night, Santi still complaining about the numerous vegetarians who had snapped at him when he'd placed Canalons à la Barcelonesa on their tables, but nonetheless relieved that he'd gone a whole five hours without smashing a single glass. Silva gasped a little as another waiter burst past him through the doorway and stood on his foot - yet again, he remained unheard.
He turned his head as he heard a slight cough, Villa lurking near the freezer and looking at him with an awkward sort of expectation. Silva fought the urge to slip everything out - who he was, and what he did, and how much he wanted Villa and hated his job and felt betrayed by Sergio - but yet again, he remained unheard.
"Don't you have something to say?" Villa finally asked softly, as Silva closed his eyes in resignation. Opening them again, he stared at his oblivious lover for a moment, and with the slightest tilt of a head and imploring eyes, said his silent apology.
Villa smiled. "You know what? You're such a ridiculously sweet person all the time, I think you earned the right to a bitchy moment." As Silva blushed, Santi's complaints again filled the room. Villa chuckled. "Fuck knows Santi bitches enough for all of us."
As far as Silva was concerned, Villa had invited it upon himself with that concessive remark; Silva felt a strange surge of emotion in his stomach, and before he could stop himself, was saying, "I have to tell you something." He barely stopped a groan of frustration as he fought the will to kick himself and tear out his hair and swear loudly all at once.
"Yeah? What kind of 'something'?" Villa continued smiling, an encouraging sort of interest in his gaze. "Oh - is this 'something' the reason why you've been so worked up -"
He froze, and Silva again felt that momentary surge of panic every time Villa did anything even remotely out of the ordinary. Did he recognise him, before Silva had had the chance to reveal himself? Did he realise who he was and what he did? Was he suddenly filled with disgust and regret and horror at the fact that his lover was a miniscule, socially awkward perfectionist of a chef?
But Villa let out a shout when, within a second, the kitchen was filled with fire. Spreading from one corner, the flames joined cries of terror engulfing the small area as everyone panicked and frantically searched for the door in between streaks of orange and red.
Silva's mind flew from Villa to Raúl and Guti and back. Trying desperately to act just as confused as the others, as though he too had no idea how unlit stovetops and ovens could suddenly catch fire, he fought through the flames and absently noted screams from the main hall as well. The panic was rampant, the burning chaos spreading quickly, blinding him as he waded through the mess to get to Villa.
His first thought had been right, however. His path towards his lover was blocked by two figures, dark-haired and blonde, slight and untroubled by the anarchy around them.
"Oh, come now," Raúl said disparagingly. "You don't think we're going to let you go that easily, surely."
Silva's horror at his identity being so easily revealed to his adversaries was dulled by the glimpse through the flames that he caught, with mounting panic, of Villa lying on the floor, barely moving. In the instant that it took Silva to vanish and reappear by Villa's side, water was spilling from the ceiling in a futile effort to calm the raging fire below, Raúl's splutters of surprise just audible through it all.
As quickly as the fire had risen and spread along with the screams that accompanied it, Silva had disappeared with Villa and slouched, coughing, against a wall in a nearby alleyway. Vague shouts and crashing noises were floating in from the main street as Silva ignored the dizziness in his head and cradled Villa's body, completely still and covered in ash.
* * * * *
The only sounds that Gago could hear so early in the morning were the songs of the occasional bird and the crunching of the dried leaves coating the path under his feet. It was strange to return to this street and find it so unfamiliar, his memories of it fuzzy and surreal, as though he was looking at it now through the filter of a dream. Nonetheless, as he continued to walk, his heart began to race as little moments jolted back.
As he passed the old bench where the old men liked to sit and feed the birds, he was reminded of long summer days in his childhood, selling bad lemonade on the side of the road, and that rush of delight he'd felt when a nice lady had generously paid $2 instead of the customary $1 for a cup. The rattling of his tin piggy-bank crowded his ponderings, along with the glee he had felt when he realised, one day, that he'd saved up enough to buy more sugar for more lemonade - profits enabling the business cycle of a ten-year-old lemonade-maker to continue until the sun began to disappear behind growing clouds, and summer would end.
He edged closer to the orphanage, the slight breeze catching against his shirt and bringing back memories of the first of January each year, when the annual pile of new clothes would arrive, fresh and clean and ironed and reminding them that they were a little bigger, a little closer to escaping and becoming something more than unwanted children.
He looked down as he walked, staring at his expensive Italian shoes and reflecting upon how much things had changed in just a few days. As big as the risk was, allowing himself to be exposed to the ruthlessness and power lust of Raúl and Guti, the little boy inside him felt that he had little choice. Money was at once a terrible and wonderful incentive, forcing you to cross boundaries and hurt people in exchange for a proper home, three meals a day, clothes on your back. And most importantly, Gago remembered with a rush of affection, for Sergio. If he had ignored that phone call, decided not to turn up to that apartment, declined that tempting offer, he would still be living with his amnesiac grandmother who barely recognised him and certainly didn't care to treat him like a member of the family, surviving on a kebab every two nights, sleeping on the floor of a tiny flat crawling with rats and cockroaches - his only company.
The building finally appeared as Gago passed an old tree. Huge, blocking out the fragments of early sunlight which tried to creep over its roof, his childhood home immediately seemed to shrink him, turning him back into a small child. Swallowing hard, he briskly headed over to the mailbox and opened it with trembling fingers, dropping an envelope inside before turning to give the house one last glance.
* * * * *
"With the city currently focused on the horrific events of last night and the suspected terrorist role played by the Force, it's a pleasure to report that this morning, Beckham House, the largest orphanage in the city, was the recipient of an anonymous cheque in the mail for one hundred thousand dollars. The orphanage, infamously short of funds for the past three years, has not received any information as to which generous individual is behind the donation. Verda TV's Steve Finnan gives us this report from Despertia's west side."
Xabi was watching the report with dull interest, reflecting numbly on his excellent editing, when Steven burst out of their bedroom, suitcase in hand.
Xabi sighed. "I suppose there's no point asking you to call once you've settled in."
"Not really," Steven replied shortly.
Xabi bristled at Steven's bluntness. He had woken up to a scrawled note ("They've given me an apartment closer to work - I'm moving out") and learnt of Steven's new job when he'd walked into his office that morning and Pepe had pounced on him with the news and questions that Xabi barely had time to process, let alone answer.
"Are you going to be at the meeting tomorrow?"
"Of course I'll be at the meeting," Steven said defiantly, but without meeting Xabi's eyes.
Silva walked in from the second bedroom, his mask pushed up onto his head, looking exhausted but infinitely calmer than he had been when he'd turned up in the middle of the night. He froze in his black costume as he looked up and realised that there was a discussion going on.
"I'm sorry," he began, "I'll just go back and -"
"No, don't bother," Xabi said wearily as Silva made to turn back around. "Steven's just leaving."
He saw Silva biting his lip as Steven glanced at him briefly.
"Is he alright?" Steven asked, looking at the floor.
"I think so," Silva said hesitantly. "You helped a lot. But he's still not waking up."
"Why are you -?" Xabi began.
"I still haven't told him who - who I am," Silva said, blushing slightly. "I figured I should stay in costume so that when he wakes up . . . well . . . so that he won't get a nasty shock," he finished with difficulty.
"You should probably take him to the hospital," Steven said briskly, his advice so much more mechanical than that which Xabi was used to. The Steven who insisted upon sticking around whenever his colleagues were hurt, whose only concern seemed to be the wellbeing of his friends, was somehow pushed into the distance by a businesslike tone and clenched jaw.
In the silence of the room, Xabi sighed yet again. "I don't believe you, Steven."
Steven looked up at him sharply before again diverting his eyes. "Doctors know better than I do why he's still asleep -"
"I know Gago's been near you. I know you've seen him."
"I told you, I don't know any such Gago," Steven said irritably. "The only time I've seen him was in Higuaín's office, in that photo."
"There's no point in lying, Steven! Fernando told me, and I know that you wouldn't be acting like -"
"Yes, well, Fernando's in prison, whereas I've just landed the best job in the city, so it doesn't take fucking Stephen Hawking to figure out who's lying."
"You only landed the best job in the city because of Gago," Xabi said in a low, shaking voice, trying desperately not to shout his frustration.
"I am qualified for the position, you do realise?"
"It's not about being qualified. Fucking hell, Steven, a few days ago you were too lazy to get off your ass to turn off the TV set, and now you're -"
A horn sounded from the street outside the apartment building.
Steven quickly gathered his wallet and phone, and turned to the door. "That's my taxi," he said simply.
"What about Sergio?"
Steven looked back, confusion clearly written on his expression. "Sergio?"
"Sergio - can you tell us anything about him? Is he planning to do more reports, to tell the police stuff - do you have any idea what he's -"
"It's not my job to hang around with the reporters. I can't help you."
Xabi spluttered. "Steven, if you're going to work there, you might as well try helping us! Figure out what's been going on, how much he's told Gago -"
"I'm already doing all I can for the Force. Sergio's no longer a part of it, so there's no reason for me to go chasing him around. So Gago's been near him - big deal. I can't stop that, so there's nothing that says I should try and get involved."
Xabi laughed humourlessly, gazing at Steven in bewilderment. "And here I was thinking that you'd changed, having gotten a fancy new job and everything. But no, you're still the same selfish, lazy Steven Gerrard -"
"I have to go."
And, ignoring Xabi's protests, he walked out, leaving Xabi standing nonplussed in the living room, Silva looking on.
"He's obviously been too far controlled and is honestly oblivious to what's happened to him," Silva said as the sound of an engine grew more distant. "Rafa told me that Gago's power works best on people who don't see him coming, so if Stevie met him before we even thought of Gago, and possibly even a few times after that -"
"But then why haven't they found the rest of us? Why are you and I still standing here, instead of knee-deep in fire somewhere - or drowning - or worse, at fucking Stentor with Sergio?"
"I don't know," Silva said with a helpless shrug.
"We have to protect ourselves," Xabi said, trying to gather his thoughts and push his emotions aside to allow for rational decision-making. "I can't stay here - you can't stay here. We have to go to headquarters and - oh, fuck, we probably can't even go there, can we?"
"I'm going to need to take David to the hospital first," Silva said quickly.
"Yeah, okay, whatever," Xabi said distractedly. "Fuck, this is too complicated. I mean, if he's still coming to meetings, then why would he put us in danger? They've already got Sergio on their side now - but it looks like he hasn't told them where headquarters is, either . . . Or maybe he has, and they're just waiting . . . But waiting for what? They have Steven, Fernando's in jail -"
"I'm going to get him out," Silva interrupted.
Xabi looked up, his panicky mind jolting to a stop. "José explicitly said not to."
"I know, but let's face it - we've lost Sergio, and I honestly think we've lost Steven, too. We need all the manpower we can get, and Fernando's not helping anyone if he's locked up."
Xabi thought for a few seconds, aware of Silva's tapping foot and his glances back towards the bedroom where Villa still lay unconscious. "Do you trust José?"
Silva frowned. "Trust him? Of course I trust -"
"Not in that way," Xabi said quickly. "I just mean - he was in charge when everything went wrong at New Year's. He couldn't predict that Raúl and Guti would turn out, well, the way they did. He knew about Gago all along, but he only just told Rafa."
"What's your point?"
"I just think that maybe - maybe he doesn't know what he's doing," Xabi said in a rush. "I don't know if we should trust his judgement. He's been wrong at the most important times, and -"
"So I'll go and get Fernando."
"Yeah," Xabi nodded. "I guess you should. I know José said that it'd be dangerous, but -"
"It'd be more dangerous not to." Silva wearily pushed his mask back onto his face as he turned back towards the bedroom. "I'll just go to the hospital first."
* * * * *
Frank scratched his wrist absently as John leaned over.
"I got us a reservation at Amphoras for tomorrow night," John whispered, as Frank bristled uncomfortably. "I thought they might be closed - you know, because of the fire - but I guess they need the money, because they're only closed tonight, and tomorrow they'll be -"
"Shut up, John," Frank hissed, trying not to move his mouth too much. "Not here!"
John sighed and straightened up again, and the eyes of several reporters flew from him back to Drogba. Frank twitched a little as his phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. Now was not the time for socialising, he thought grimly.
"Now that you have confirmed the Force as your primary suspects, do you have any further clues as to the real-life identities of these men?"
Frank noticed Drogba wince a little at the question. "We have our suspicions, and we're working on following them up. We are not willing to reveal our plans to the press at the present moment - it would be neither safe nor useful."
Frank's phone buzzed again. He fished it out and looked at the caller ID - the police station. Shoving it impatiently back into his pocket, he ignored John's raised eyebrows and coughed pointedly as he refocused his attention. But the station called again, so Frank excused himself and slid around to the side while the press remained unflappably enthralled by Drogba's statement.
John had followed him, and stared curiously as Frank listened to the officer on the end of the line in complete silence, feeling his mouth opening.
"What's he saying?"
Frank flapped a hand to tell John to be quiet, before hanging up the phone, knowing that his face probably reflected how stunned he felt.
"It's - it's Torres," Frank said blankly. "He's escaped."
"What? That idiot, escaped?"
"He disappeared. Like, one minute he was there, and he was gone the next."
John looked at him as though he were communicating with a two-year-old. "Lampsy. He's fuckin' invisible, isn't he?"
"No, he disappeared. Like, he's not in the bloody cell anymore." Frank looked agitatedly towards the press, to whom Drogba was still speaking, as John gaped at him.
"Blimey. Didn't know he could disappear as well as turn invisible."
Frank shook his head, trying to think clearly. "Joe just told me that some bloke in black suddenly appeared in the cell, grabbed Torres' arm, and vanished. Went somewhere."
"Do they know who the other guy is?"
"No, he was in one of those bloody masks, wasn't he?" Inhaling deeply, Frank steered John back towards the cameras and microphones. "Look, don't act like anything's wrong. We'll tell the boss once he's done, alright?"
"Ooh, I like it when you tell me what to do," John said with a cheeky smile, and Frank let go of his arm with a glare.
The press call only lasted another couple of minutes, with reporters still hassling Drogba for information - information which Frank knew he couldn't give them. The only lead they had was Xabi Alonso, who seemed to be hiding something, but merely looking at a guy and thinking he was a bit dodgy wasn't enough to go stamping his name on the next day's papers.
"I have nothing more to say, thank you for your time, good day," Drogba at last said hurriedly, turning to roll his eyes at Frank and John. Frank hesitated to break the news to his clearly exhausted boss, thinking that it would perhaps be more tactful to wait until he'd gotten a well-earned cup of coffee before telling him that their security guards had failed spectacularly at their job. But John, clearly, thought otherwise.
"Torres has broken out, sir! Well, not 'broken out', exactly - that sort of makes it sound like he's got pimples or something, doesn't it? Although he does have a few, to be honest. But yeah, 'broken out' - no, he didn't break the bars or anything. One of the other blokes - you know, in the black, those shifty types - one of them came and got him! Like, literally came in, and got him. Grabbed him and disappeared. Into thin air. Like a ghost. Oh, wait, do ghosts disappear?"
"It was another member of the Force, sir," Frank said, gazing at his boss with wide, anxious eyes. Drogba didn't respond, but merely stared back, his eyes flicking from John to Frank frantically. "I'm not sure why they waited until now to get him, if it is that they've been able to do this all along, but, uhm, yes. He's no longer in his cell."
Drogba inhaled sharply, turning his head quickly to ensure that none of the media's busybodies was listening in. "Do they have any clue where he's gone?" he asked stiffly.
Frank shook his head. "We don't even know who the other bloke is. A really small guy, apparently, so definitely not Alonso."
Drogba bit his lip and nodded slowly, staring ahead blankly, Frank watching him attentively. His usually tough, no-nonsense exterior had vanished, if only for a moment. "Well," he said simply. "I didn't see that coming."
* * * * *
"I thought you said Silva was the flyer?" Raúl spat.
"I thought he was."
"Did you do any research?"
"It's not my job to do research, Raúl. If you were so concerned about who Silva was, you should have stalked him yourself."
"I told you Fàbregas was the flyer," Gago interjected quietly.
"Stalked him myself?" Raúl continued, ignoring Gago. "Did you even go near him in the first place?"
"It's not my job to do that!"
"We don't have jobs. Tell me, when did I ever fucking write out a job description for you? We do what needs to be done. If you think we don't know enough about a guy, you go and do your fucking homework."
"What have you been doing, then, if you're so fucking resourceful?"
"Oh, I don't know, trying to figure out how to get things back on track?"
Gago raised his hand as though he were a child wanting to speak in a classroom. "Uhm, question: why did you call me over?"
Raúl snapped his head around, Guti still staring daggers at him and looking as though he had several more things to say. "It's time to use Sergio properly," Raúl said sharply. "As leverage."
Gago's mouth opened a fraction and his finger twitched just slightly by his side. "Are you talking about the charity thing?"
"These guys are clever. We can't wait any longer than a few months, they'll probably have us figured out by then."
"So use Fàbregas!" Gago all but spluttered. "Or - or any of the others!"
"Oh, developing feelings for your long-haired project, are you?"
"He's not a project," Gago muttered.
"We need him. You knew we would at some point, don't act all wounded now -"
"You said you wouldn't hurt him."
Raúl paused. "We never guaranteed anything."
The silence in the room was thick, almost penetrable, as both Guti and Gago glared at Raúl with different types of anger and disbelief behind their eyes.
"Don't think about trying to control us, by the way," Raúl continued dangerously. "We have provisions for that - notes, warnings written around this apartment - if you try anything. We'll still be able to fry your little -"
"Threats aren't necessary," Gago said tersely.
"I hope they're not."
"What about Alonso?" Guti asked Raúl, his question something of a challenge. "He's the only one we haven't even tried to get."
"We tried, of course we tried!" Raúl argued irritably. "What do you think we got hold of Gerrard for, if not to get to Alonso?"
"We need to be more direct, that's all I'm saying."
"Well, that's what I'm trying to say as well, if you'd just shut up for a minute and let me finish!"
Guti seemed to struggle internally for a second, clenching his jaw, looking as though he was trying to choose between walking away, screaming, and hitting Raúl. He did nothing, however, and Gago's eyes swung back to Raúl.
"Fine," Gago said shortly. "Tell me what you want, and I'll do it."
Raúl looked somewhat relieved. "We will double your pay for this."
"We will?" Guti snapped.
Raúl ignored him. "I want to see those bastards, and their fucking coaches, looking just like this kid here."
Kun jumped as Raúl turned and kicked his chair. His wrists and ankles bound to the hard wood, Kun was jerked out of his distractions and reminded of where he was, and his muscles began throbbing again.
* * * * *
If it was hard to remain silent and unmoving throughout the meeting, it was downright painful to have to remain standing the entire time - his rather cushioned chair would have given him away immediately if he'd tried to sit down, no matter how much his body was aching for a proper rest. Xabi had generously offered him the bed the night before, but Fernando could no longer ask for any more favours, and argued that he was perfectly happy to sleep on the hard wooden floor of their lonely motel room.
He was paying for it today, however, and he longed to stretch widely under his cover of invisibility (they had yet to pluck up the courage to tell Rafa and José that they'd disobeyed their order to leave Fernando in his cell). But his body always tended to crack when he moved - his knees, neck and shoulders were bound to make a telltale sound if he dared. He had a fleeting wish that everyone would break out into a huge argument, screaming and cursing at each other, so that he could crack his hip just slightly and then maybe it would stop feeling so numb - but his colleagues were more silent than he had ever heard them in his few short months of being one of them.
"It's clear that this charity event is going to be a target of theirs, if not the ultimate target of their entire plan," Rafa explained to the room, every eye watching him intently. "Cesc has gotten almost all the details for us."
He nodded at Cesc, who gave a small, reluctant smile. Fernando could tell that Gago had gone to work on him. He was wearing the same determined look that Steven had, as if to prove that there was nothing wrong with him, that there weren't holes in his memory, emotions and thoughts that he couldn't trace. The same blankness and mild confusion lay behind his gaze as he looked across at Rafa. Fernando observed all this with a constant twinge of sadness in his chest, knowing that Sergio's oblivion was so much greater, and so much more painful.
"We have to be completely prepared, but at the same time, completely hidden. This means that none of you can be seen in public again."
Fernando's first thought was a half-hope that this statement would cause all of them to break into shouts of protest, but they merely stared darkly back, as though they had predicted the order and were hardly surprised to have been told such a thing.
"I understand that for some of you, this will be hard." Rafa glanced in Steven's direction before looking at Xabi as well, both of their expressions unreadable. "But given the - situation, I don't think any of you can dispute what I'm saying. It's not only your own safety, after all, but potentially the safety of the entire city."
Fernando suppressed an ironic chuckle as he saw Xabi's jaw tighten. He knew that Xabi would never voluntarily abandon his job without very good reason. A workaholic like that would collapse under the strain of burdensome emptiness for three months - it was ludicrous, what Rafa was suggesting. Fernando doubted Steven would sacrifice his new job - and new apartment - either. But for appearance's sake, the two ex-lovers kept their disagreement silent.
"Over the next few weeks, we are going to arm ourselves against any possible obstacle that Raúl and Guti can throw at us. We've all had considerable experience with them already - more than we'd like, anyway - and with José's knowledge far outweighing ours, we should be able to combat what will undoubtedly be crude attempts at destruction at that charity event."
José said nothing, looking mutinous as he sat beside Rafa and let his peer take charge. His eyes flew from one student to another. Perhaps he was assessing them, or trying to figure them out, or simply wondering how it was all going so wrong so fast, yet again. Fernando sympathised - it must have been hard on the man to see his troops falling apart for the second time in less than a year.
"Xabi, I think your idea of renting out motel rooms is a very sensible -"
"We can't all afford that," Silva muttered.
"I'll pay," Steven said, his offer less voluntary than it was resigned. "I'll be making enough."
Everyone looked at him for a second, grateful and surprised, before Rafa spoke again. "You'll have to stay in motels too, Steven -"
"How are you going to get enough money to pay for all of that if you don't turn up to your job?" Xabi asked Steven directly, his voice cold. "It's not like you had any savings before."
"I'll have enough to pay," Steven said tersely, still looking at Rafa. Yes, Fernando thought, he's definitely going to keep turning up at work. Sorry Rafa, but three months is a long time.
"I have a question," Cesc asked warily, glancing from Steven to Rafa to see if the silence was more than a short pause in conversation. They both raised their eyebrows at him. "Uhm, it's just that, well - if we suddenly disappear, won't people notice? Three months is a long time." Damn straight, Fernando nodded to himself.
"Exactly," Xabi jumped in again. "Not only will it completely mess with our families and colleagues if we just drop off the face of the earth, but it'd look pretty suspicious, I'd say!"
"Not to mention Drogba," José spoke for the first time. Rafa's head whirled around and he stared at his partner. José shrugged. "The police, you know, they'd set up search parties and missing persons units, and then when they fail to find us, they'll put us on their hit-list. Wanted: dead or alive, etcetera, etcetera."
"They can't reasonably jump to any conclusions about our activities just because we go missing for a few weeks," Rafa protested.
José looked back incredulously. "You know they can. You know that Drogba can."
Everyone was staring at the coaches, Silva blinking furiously, clearly thinking hard. "Uhm, am I missing something here? Is there a reason why your conversation has suddenly become Drogba-centric?"
"No -"
"Yes," José interrupted Rafa. "He used to be one of you."
The silence was close to overwhelming, and Fernando tried his hardest not to breathe, noticing Xabi's eyes flicking in his direction briefly.
"He left after - after the whole catastrophe," José continued. "They all left. He was probably the most valuable, but he swore he'd never have anything to do with us -"
"Look, it's all just irrelevant," Rafa asserted. "So what if he was a superhero? The only problem he poses to us is that he's greatly mistrusting of us, which could be said about anyone these days, let's face it -"
"You know his threat is greater than that," José said firmly.
"It's not a threat. If anything, it's a virtue - it means that society is better protected -"
"And we're more at risk than ever! How do you think he found Fernando? Instinct? It's only a matter of time before he gets back into it seriously and starts turning up everywhere we go."
"What's your point, José? Whether we go into hiding or not, he can use his ability against us. So I don't see where you're going -"
"Neither do we!" Xabi said angrily. "Can one of you please enlighten us already?"
Rafa sighed. "Drogba can see into the future," he said resignedly into the increasingly tense silence. "He predicts things, he can see where people are going to be, what they'll be doing, who they'll be with. Once, he had huge amounts of control over his power - he could predict almost anything at will. We're thinking that since he's let it go, he's not quite so astute anymore -"
"You keep telling yourself that, Rafa," José snapped. "He'll do anything to foil us, you know that - you know how he hates us and everything we do. He can't have found Fernando unless he was using his power!"
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Silva spoke up, his eyes flicking around frantically as he tried to make sense of it all. "Didier Drogba, Sergeant Didier Drogba, has a vendetta against us as well as insider knowledge?" He looked up, staring around the room. "Is nobody else completely panicked by this?"
"He doesn't have insider knowledge," José said. "This place wasn't always headquarters, and I've moved house as well since then, so really, he doesn't know where we are -"
"But he knows who you are!"
"Well, yes. But since Arsène died, and Scolari quit, well, I guess he thinks that I quit as well," José said with a shrug. "Look, I'm not pretending that this isn't a huge problem. I just want you all to be on your guard and make sure that I'm the only person whose name he knows for sure. It's bad enough having those three slimeballs on our tails - we don't need the police after us, too. Keep his suspicions at mere speculation, and nothing more. Going into hiding would be a huge mistake. We don't need any more Fernando's."
"We won't have any more Fernando's," Rafa said firmly to the heroes, who were all staring back, wide-eyed and breathless. "We're better prepared this time. As long as we're smart and careful, we'll come out on top, I promise you."
But as much as Rafa and José continued to try and reassure their troops in between their own arguments, Fernando could feel the tension tangibly mounting in the room. After getting over the initial shock that Drogba had used prophecy to find him on that rainy night, Fernando found himself filled with a quiet horror. No matter how they tried to hide, Drogba could always find them, in his mind, his dreams - however it was that he got his visions. And however much Rafa tried to convince them otherwise, it seemed unlikely that Drogba would be able to continue using his power so sparingly if he did indeed harbour such resentment towards his former family.
As wristwatches beeped on the hour and the meeting split up, Fernando forget all about stretching in the renewed noise of the room. His only thought was that their enemies now seemed to come at them from all angles. And what frightened him most was that the newest appeared to have a genuine reason for hating them - a horrific betrayal by the men he once worked alongside, in the Force.
Part VI