10 DEATHS FOR 10 YEARS [5 of 6]:
So this wraps up the ones for now. This doesnât make ten, but itâll be the reason ten happens eventually. Now you can react to anything and everything thatâs happened. Iâll contact players individually about anything ambiguous, including the French chat about what this means, but until then, enjoy. Also this is messy because itâs late and I canât bring myself to edit it anymore, so sorry about that.Â
Date: May 12th, 2022. Warnings: This is what happens when you donât plot mob violence. Iâll do it.
Everybody hated hospitals.
They couldnât all relate to the reasons why she hated them more than most, though.
The last time Noa HalĂ©vy had been at St. Catherineâs, sheâd been fighting for her life courtesy of Laraâs right hand; a recovery thatâd been easier on her physically than it had mentally, as it turned out. For all the injuries sheâd endured across her tenure in the French Organizationâeven when Aviv had stolen her engagement ring, and the finger along with itânone of them had been quite as strenuous to process as Halloweâen. The one thatâd almost taken her away from her family, and the one that had taken Vardenâs son away from his. Â
And that was precisely what made being there so difficult.
Not reliving the pain of her stabbing, or the devastation of Ludovic giving his life to save hers, or the trauma thatâd come with almost being hanged by Medea fucking Barrett.
It was because she attached that feeling of guilt to here above anywhere else; the place where sheâd spent weeks hurting herself far more than some assassin ever could with the knowledge that it was her fault Gabriel was dead. It was attached to the smell of sterile halls and antiseptic air, and the sound of staff calling to each other whenever something went wrong. To the sound of stressed relatives pacing outside hospital rooms, and even to the chocolate fucking doughnuts in the cafeteria that she both loved and felt nauseous at the sight of. It was all interlinked. All hurt, and guilt, and disappointment in herself.
Even if Gabriel hadnât been compelled to shout out to her when heâd realised that she was in trouble, the situation never wouldâve presented itself at all if she hadnât made the decision to attack Lara Rutherford.
The fact Varden had never assigned her blame mattered little. Â
Noa did.
It was her fault. Â
Being here was hard for her, even if she wouldnât say a fucking word about it. Because Noa was good like that. People had grown to expect it of her; to be positive, and carefree, and without a single damn stress in the world. The woman was the type to comfort others whilst they dealt with their painâher husband and ValĂ©rie, on this occasionârather than giving herself a moment to process her own. The type to hide the fact she ever experienced any at all when she sometimes felt like one of the few who inspired hope that things could get better, even when life presented every hurdle to make one assume the opposite. Â
Noa hadnât said a word about how sheâd left Yvesâ room to cry when Varden first came to see him. Â
Taking a breather away from them all was, perhaps for the first time she could recall, the one thing that kept her sane right now.
It shouldâve been a time for family to comfort each other, a time to find support in their unity. But when she wasnât reliving the agony of the past, she was trying to figure out a way to deal with almost losing her brother in the present. There was some solace to be found in the fact the doctors said he was doing well. That the surgery had been successful, and he was, for the most part, out of the woods. Yet her mind was straying to places uncharacteristically morbid for her, and Noa couldnât stop it. Â
Who was going to be next? Dan? Her sister? Â
It was never going to stop, and theyâd all just convinced themselves it was life in the meantime.
Noa looked at the doughnut in her hand. Then toward the entrance of the hospital. Â
Was there time to make a run for it, and answer questions later?
As much as sheâd wished the answer was yes, apparently, the day had something else planned.
At first, the familiarity of the woman had almost passed her by for being so consumed with her own thoughts. The tall brunette walked with such grace and purpose, she drew the attention of many around her, Noa included. But it wasnât until she noticed her warm smileâone that faded in an instant as their eyes met awkwardly across the expanse of the main foyerâthat the realisation fully set in. The familiarity was not pleasant at all. In fact, it left a rather uncomfortable lump in her throat. Â
Eva Abramovic.
Or Giroud, now, wasnât it?
Launceston had been tormented by Konstantinâs favourite assassin for years before sheâd stepped back from the role. A decision she wished to share with a retired French counterpart who happened to mean a great deal to three men Noa cared a lot about, apparently. And that seemed like a little too much of a coincidence for her liking. What other reason would she have for showing her face in London if it wasnât for Marcel? And what would Marcel be doing in a city he overtly despised if not visiting one of those three that just so happened to be lying in a hospital bed upstairs?
Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions, but Noa had learnt the hard way that sometimes making those leaps saved lives. It was better to look stupid than delay pointing out a potential problem.
And when the woman in question started to take longer stridesâalmost as if recognising her gave reason to rushâNoa realised that they definitely had one of those on their hands. Â
The woman traded the shitty fucking trauma doughnut for an attempt to pull her phone out of her pocket. Catching up to her would prove a struggle given her pace, but at the very least, Noa could call ahead and warn her family to be on the lookout. Warn them that even if Eva was there for other reasons unbeknownst to them, it was better to be safe than sorry so far as former Russian assassins were concerned.
Particularly ones with a fondness for Konstantin Vorshevsky. Â
But nobody answered. Not Dan, as she made her way across the foyer. Not Varden, as she stabbed the lift button repeatedly to try and beat her to the top floor. Not ValĂ©rie, as she stood inside of the thing, willing it to go faster with all her might. There was no way she had gotten there quickly enough to be the cause of the radio silence, but that didnât curb the panic that settled nauseatingly in the pit of her stomach. Â
Why would they not answer her unless something was wrong?
Noa couldnât have wedged impatiently through a smaller gap in the doors if sheâd tried. Â
The floor that awaited her seemed dead. There had been plenty of people in the private wing earlier, and yet now, they all seemed to have disappeared into thin air like theyâd sensed the trouble looming, too. Even the admin station was empty of anybody who couldâve helped. And if hospitals werenât already uneasy enough places to be, one that felt close to deserted to the woman stood in it was worse.
She was running, then. Rounding the corner so quickly sheâd almost crashed into the opposite wall.
Still, nobody was answering.
What the fuck were they doing? What the fuck was going on?
And then she reached the hallway that led to Yvesâ room. Â
Instead of being greeted with the familiar host of security hovering around his doorâsignificant enough it could only be worthy of a numberâthe sight was far more chilling. The two permanent guards were there, all right, but they were both lying lifeless on the floor in a puddle of blood large enough that the assumption of death was immediate. It was creeping and expanding around them insidiously. Enough for her to realise that whatever, whoever, had been responsible for it was recent.
The door was shut. The only commotion she could hear from behind it was jubilant laughter. Â
None of it made any sense.
If her heart had pounded any harder, she was sure it wouldâve burst right out of her fucking ribcage; maybe somewhere close to where Medea had plunged the knife that she sometimes wished had killed her. And if sheâd been smarter, perhaps she wouldâve thought a little harder about what she was running blindly into, instead of thinking only of reaching the people she loved before somebody else got the chance.
Noa had done herself a disservice. Â
Eva wasnât the only assassin in the building. But of the two women, she was the only one acting like it.
And it wouldnât take long for her to pay the price for that sloppiness.
Even though she hadnât been anywhere near close enough to the door to reach out for it, when sheâd felt the horrifically familiar feeling of a knife plunging into her back, as if in utter desperation, Noa had outstretched a hand toward the room full of people as if by some miracle she could get to them. As if willing it hard enough would summon her husband to the door to save her just like he always did. Â
But nobody came. Not when she outstretched a hand, nor when she fell to her knees. Â
It mustâve been shock because it wasnât the pain that stopped her from screaming out to them.
Mostly because she realised she didnât feel much at all. Â
Life hadnât left her yet, but she reasoned it would do so fairly quickly. Eva stepped around herâcareful to avoid the bloody puddles from the other two, of courseâas if she was nothing but a mild inconvenience blocking the way to her true reason for being there. Perhaps, had her mind not been so preoccupied with concern for her husband, for the person she loved more than anything, she mightâve found room to be annoyed about the attitude. Instead, all she could do was watch. Reach a hand forward in an attempt to drag a body flagging helplessly as blood streamed from a wound delivered with such expert precision, Noa wasnât sure that being in a hospital couldâve saved her, even if they showed up right then.
Eva opened the door, but her whine was too pitiful to attract any attention. Â
Laurentâs voice sounded above the others as she showed her face, and Noa was flooded with fleeting relief as she realised that he knew immediately that she was a problem. Â
But it didnât matter. And the relief was only fleeting because it was too late.
The Russian had been quick with a blade, but even more so with a gun. Â
It mustâve been Laurent she targeted first. The sound that followed was definitely a body hitting the floor, though.
Meaningless protests, and a flurry of silenced gunshots, and desperation, and struggle all battled to be the loudest in the room. And yet the most haunting sound of all was the growing silence that accompanied each new person she undoubtedly hit. Â
There was a second gun, she was sure.
Marcel mustâve been in on it. How else would she have known they were there?
Noa could feel her vision fading to black. The inviting kind that felt a little like sleep, she realised, as opposed to the empty sort sheâd woken up from many times before. But before it could take herâfilled with thoughts of a daughter she would never see age, and a husband she would never know for sure made it out of thereâthe pained yell of the latter seemed to snap her back to consciousness in an instant. Noa had wanted to close her eyes, but she wanted to help him more. See him one last time. Â
Tell him she loved him.
It felt as though her body was seizing up. Like sheâd lost control of her limbs. Â
But when sheâd spotted the gun peering out from beneath one of the dead bodyguardâs jackets, the sound of her husbandâs panic was just enough motivation to fight against it with all of her might. To edge herself with pathetic weakness just close enough to grab the thing. Â
And then back again. Â
Noa couldnât see much, but she could see Laurent down. Varden, too.
Despite her immediate thought that Marcel had been involved, however, she was soon proven wrong as she realised his seemingly dead body was hunched over Varden, now struggling for breath, as though he was trying to protect him.
Eva was hit. Clutching at her side as the blood seeped through splayed fingers. Â
Maybe it was a blessing that she never got close enough to the room to see her husband, because the way the Russian turned with eagerness to depart suggested she thought her job done. Maybe it was a small mercy on Godâs part that sheâd been deprived the sorrow of really taking a moment to consider that. Â
It wasnât fear that flashed in her enemyâs eyes as she spied Noaâs finger on the trigger.
In fact, for a moment, the Frenchwoman wondered if it was a relief similar to the one thatâd crossed her mind not long before.
All she managed was one shot before the gun dropped from hands that had no business trying to wield it.
But one shot was all she needed to take one last life before hers was gone. Â
