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Carmen’s hands shake as she slips away from the scene, one pressed firmly to her abdomen. Red seeps past her fingers, warms the cooling tips of her hand. She sinks into the nearby bushes, gasping horribly as she tries to adjust to her wound. It’s hard to concentrate as the entire world swims, the gaping void of her injury sucking all the light of the room. She can’t look at it now, she has to focus on her enemy; they’re prowling around out there, waving flashlights like a lighthouse beacon, the single eye of the flashlight’s beam a death sentence. If they find her now, she’s not sure how well she would be able to fight.
She hunkers down into the leaves, filtering a hiss through her lips. It’s painful to be sitting here, world narrowed to the space between a couple branches. It doesn’t help that it’s raining, and the water is leaking into her hurt. Her hair sticks uncomfortably to her face. Her clothes feel scratchy and heavy. She tries not to think about the blood she’s lost.
Gray was the only one who really liked her. That was made clear on many occasions, where she never quite fit in with anyone when he wasn’t around; but today, it’s glaringly obvious. El Topo nearly shot her on sight. Tigress ran scores across her arms— this is a coat she’s never getting back. It’s laughable, really. How she imagined them all to be her friends.
The only friends she’s ever had were broken.
She remembers Tigress’ glee when she was finally hit, fire blazing up her spine and pain wracking her senses. The faces of the others— they flickered, if only for a moment, but Carmen didn’t care, because she could smell her flesh burning in the breeze and the heavy scent of iron made her nose buzz.
Carmen never really did like getting hurt.
She thanks her lucky stars Tigress only resembles her namesake in ferocity, not intelligence or observance. She hears the click of her (frankly unconventional) heels far too close for her liking, and sucks in a fearful breath when she notices a scrap of her coat waiting to be noticed.
Without thinking, she yanks it back. It’s too close. It’s too close. Her breath quickens as she runs through all the possibilities of getting caught, but they all end the same way— with her throat slit in a ragged line, twin scars pooling twin blood.
It’s hard, she thinks. It’s hard to face the reality that you’re not invincible.
She had felt unstoppable for so long. Nothing, no one could touch her; endless chases with Devineuax, teasing, light, fun. Broad escapes and broader escapades, stealing away in the dead of night. Easy VILE pickings. Never coming to serious harm, only blows, because she was intelligent enough to defeat her opponents where her strength failed, and every fight left her pleasantly exhausted. She was nothing if not a creature of pride, raised nestled under the wing of the most prideful beings to have ever existed. Nestled into the wings of the woman she considered her mother. That is, right until her ass had been kicked so thoroughly she still has nightmares about the color green.
Tigress moves on. The shaking in Carmen’s hands never stop.
She leaves her hat.
Carmen moves on, ducking under the flashing array of lights. Once, she fears she’s been found out, eyes instinctively crunching in the blaze of the lights. But whoever saw her is merciful enough to let her go, and when Carmen sleeps at night she is intelligent enough to pray her thanks.
She hopes they’re still searching for her. They can search, but she’s already slipped far, far away. The longer they search, the more time she has to spend limping off to lick her wounds. Her vision swims as she walks, head pulsing and squeezing with pain. At least it wasn’t a real gun that shot me, she thinks. There would have been something more violent about it that way. Lasers and tasers crackling with green lightning seem far more comical, a distortion of reality as she knows it. Of course, that’s all she’s grown up with; but it’s hard to imagine something called a “sizzle stick” as particularly dangerous.
But it’s times like this where it’s clear that she’s wrong.
A humorless laugh escapes her lips. She can’t let her friends see her like this. Like she’s not strong. Crawling to safety, blood pouring past her fingers and down her arms.
She thinks briefly about calling Miss Argent. Wouldn’t that be a treat? Her, sprawled out in some chair, watching Chase Devineuax go ballistic while Miss Argent undoubtedly tends to her wounds. Delightful scene. Domestic, against all odds. Her, injured, in the view of her greatest thrill, her sweetest conquest. Nimble fingers dancing across her skin. Nimble fingers soaked in her blood.
No.
She’ll never let them see her as anything less than invincible.
——
Carmen disappearing for a few days isn’t uncommon. Her missions run a little long sometimes, and that’s okay.
Usually she calls Player, but. She hasn’t now, and he’s worried. He doesn’t ring her out of fear— sometimes at night Player will think of when he accidentally called her on that plane and she was so shocked and fearful sounding answering, like he was about to compromise her position. Player knows that it will just happen sometimes; it’s not as if he’s there with them, constantly aware of where they are in relation to other people. He knows they can handle themselves, all three.
But it still feels terrifying when he realizes he’s accidentally compromised his friends.
He should call her. Just to make sure he’s safe. He’s watching her position on his map, her slow trek to somewhere unknown. If she was hurt, wouldn’t she call for pickup? Or help? Or just to talk?
Player takes in a deep breath, steps away from his computer for a moment. He’s starting to feel anxious, and he’s due for a stretch anyway.
Carmen will call. She always does.
——
It looks better in the light.
The dark of the night warped her vision, made the blood smeared onto her skin blur the edges of her injury. The flesh is puckered from the burns, but thankfully somewhat shallow— which is, of course, in typical Carmen Sandiego fashion, only discovered after one incredibly painful shower. It hurts terribly when she moves, and Carmen suspects it will bleed for a few more days as it scabs over. It’s a rather large wound, unfortunately, and Carmen resigns herself to too many days of rest. She doesn’t like to depend entirely on Zack and Ivy. It’s not that they aren’t capable, it’s just that she doesn’t want them to end up like this.
And being like this means that telling her team is unavoidable. This isn’t one of the smaller injuries she can hide by being careful or by deflecting their concern with wit— if it reopens, all of Carmen’s progress would be erased, and she’d have to rest even longer. Disappearing until it heals isn’t an option, either. That would make it obvious that they managed to do a number on her.
Well, she concedes, it will still be obvious seeing as she won’t be on any missions until she’s off her self-imposed bedrest, but still.
No, better to do it right the first time.
She sighs, and settles down on her springy mattress for a long phone call. She decides to start with Player. With how young he is, he’s bound to worry about her the most.
The phone barely rings once before it’s picked up.
“Carmen!?”
A laugh escapes her. “So, you’re never going to believe the night I’ve had…”
——
Julia’s heart clenches as she surveys the scene. The air smells heavy with earth and rain, and a twinge of something Julia can’t identify. There’s more destruction here than she’s ever seen at any of the places Carmen has robbed, and that frightens her. There is no way Carmen came out of this unscathed.
Her pulse has leapt into her throat, rendered her near mute as she surveys with a special type of hurt the trampled bushes, muddy footprints, destroyed concrete. The path Carmen had clearly taken to escape, laden with red scraps and something a little bit darker, something Julia doesn’t want to think about. Her hat lays abandoned in the brush. She picks it up, stowing it carefully in the shelter of her arm from the warm drizzle of rain; though that doesn’t mean much, considering how damp it is. Any other traces of Carmen Sandiego have clearly washed away with the rain.
But she is Julia Argent, expert on all things Carmen Sandiego. She will find her.
Taking a quick look around, she takes off into the distance, following the tiny rivers she believes were made by Carmen’s shoes as they dragged against the soft earth. She dares not think about why. The further she walks, the more her pulse races; there are so many signs that Carmen Sandiego is just not alright, rips of fabric caught in avoidable pricker bushes and one damning, bleeding hand print. The leaves of the tree have mostly protected it, but it still drips down to the floor from where some rain got to it. Julia feels sick, but presses on.
After a long while she comes upon a shabby looking motel. It shocks and scares her how far Carmen must have walked, in pain and alone, only to come upon a dirty motel that’s far beneath her typical five-star life. When she walks in, a young man stands inattentively at the desk; when he sees her arrive, he stands ramrod straight. “How may I help you?” he asks as she approaches, and Julia tries to disguise her concern as she subtly observes her surroundings.
“Excuse me, but did a young lady come in last night? Possibly injured?”
He looks confused for a minute before gasping, a wide-eyed look on his face. “Yea, actually, this lady came stumblin’ in ‘esterday askin’ for a room sometime ‘round midnight. Wearin’ all red.”
Julia nods excitedly. “Yes! That’s her! Please, tell me what room she’s in, I’m very worried about her.”
The young man’s face twists. “Well I dunno about all that… I ain’t supposed to just give out customer information like that, y’know? Gotta respect their privacy.”
“Please?” She begs. “She’s— she’s very important to me, I have to make sure that she’s safe— I, I’ll do anything. Just—” Her eyes close momentarily, a crawling fear making her whole body shake. “Please, let me see her.”
His face softens and, with a resigned sigh, he hands her a small key. “Room 202.”
“Yes!” She cheers, and bolts off to find her Carmen.
—
Julia does not bother with the pretense of knocking. She simply opens it, and finds herself immediately up against the wall; a shaky elbow is pressed dangerously to her throat, and when her eyes flutter open, she finds the angry expression of Carmen Sandiego. Julia nearly melts with relief— “Thank God I found you,” she breathes.
“How did you find me?” Carmen snarls, but the pressure on her throat never increases, though it never eases.
Despite herself, Julia preens. “I’m just a good detective, Miss Sandiego.”
“Too good.” Her eyes narrow and she lets Julia go, shifting to look quickly out the door. Satisfied that she’s not in danger of being caught by Interpol or VILE, she turns her attention to Julia. “What do you want, Jules?”
Julia watches as Carmen’s hand steadily crawls back up to her stomach. “I—“ she murmurs, gaze traveling up her entire person. She swallows heavily once she catches the bandages sticking out of her ruined tank-top, the deep scratches across her arms, the gash on her forehead. Her nose and eye are bruised, too, but as she reaches Carmen’s face, she sees the thief raise her eyebrows and smirk— Julia flushes, embarrassed to be caught staring.
The cuts are clean, at least. Carmen seems to know how to take care of herself, which is good. Even banged up like this, Julia notes, Carmen is still— still incredibly beautiful. The sight of her in a tank top and shorts makes Julia’s face heat, burning brighter than the embarrassment. But despite this, despite the way the light filters past Carmen’s unruly hair, lighting her up like an angel, Julia just has to know—
“Where do you go if you get injured?” She blurts, taking a step towards Carmen.
The thief smiles, foxy and wry. “A good detective always asks good questions,” she praises.
Why would I ever tell you? Is what Julia hears, and she shakes her head, steps dangerously close to Carmen. Her hands reach slowly out, pressing against the warmth of her belly, nimble fingers pricking at the folds of the bloody gauze. “Please tell me you have somewhere to go,” she begs, voice curiously soft. “please tell me you know the answer.” Her hands keep roaming, touching softly, dragging lightly over bumpy fabric. Her head bumps against Carmen’s chest.
Carmen doesn’t move. For the longest time, she can’t. Her arms hang limply at her sides, but when she hears Julia begin to sniffle they trail far too intimately up her back. “Jules, don’t…”
Don’t get too close to me, is what she wants to say. I don’t have anywhere to go.
“Don’t cry,” she finishes lamely, tightening her grip on the smaller woman.
“I’m not crying!” Julia says through her tears, looking up at Carmen with watery eyes. Her fingers rub circles against Carmen’s wound and she shivers; the thief looks at her morosely, a deep sadness in her gaze.
“How do you always know how to find me?” Carmen murmurs, and one hand travels from the small of Julia’s back to the nape of her neck, tangling in the short strands of hair.
Julia gives her a warm, lopsided smile. She’s focused entirely on Carmen’s lips, stained dark red with her lipstick. It reminds Julia of the cherry-wine blossom of blood on Carmen’s abdomen, the warm burgundy of her hair. “I’m just a good detective,” she answers, voice equally as hushed.
“Mmmm.” She doesn’t deign Julia with a response, just tilts her head down slowly. She watches her for any sign of discomfort, but before she can get a complete read Julia shoots up, roughly pressing her lips to Carmen’s. Before she can even think twice, Julia is nibbling on Carmen’s bottom lip in a way that makes her run furiously hot, and Carmen lets out a low groan as she tugs on Julia’s hair.
“Carmen,” she sighs, breathy and low, her slender form melding against Carmen’s own. It’s perfect. She couldn’t imagine it any other way. Julia’s hands move to cup her face gently, turning her partner’s head to get a better angle. Carmen bends low and pulls Julia even closer, smiling.
She thinks she’s in control here, Carmen muses, How cute.
Carmen delights in Julia’s squeak when she hoists the woman up, wrapping her legs around her waist (though she keeps Julia’s weight off her wound), walking them backwards towards the bed. “Carmen,” Julia sighs again, but it’s syrupy and low, beautifully satisfied. She peppers Julia’s neck with close-mouthed kisses, lays her down gently upon the bed to kiss her harder, caging her body in with her arms.
Wandering hands find a place in her hair. Something burns deep in her chest, lights up the cavity where her heart lay with fireworks. She looks down at Julia, pink lips swollen and bitten, eyes wide and pupils dilated, short hair mussed and thinks she’s beautiful. She looks down at Julia and thinks, I don’t want to lose you, and tries to force all of her wanting into one kiss, squeezes her eyes shut against the tide of her affection.
“Julia.” Carmen nearly cries, breaking their kiss to press their foreheads together. “Julia.” Her hands scrabble at Julia’s clothing, great, heaving sobs escaping past her lips. Her tears stream down her face, dripping steadily onto Julia’s face.
“I know,” Julia says. She doesn’t know. She can’t know. But the words reassure Carmen anyways, and she clings to the other, her face buried in a curtain of hair.
“I know.”