The Dogs of Rosslea

Hello, lovelies! Longtime reader, first-time poster. I've been sitting on this one for a while, but between avoiding a work deadline and feeling a little lonely tonight, I thought it might be time to share.

For future chapters, I would love an editor. If you would like to help, please DM me.

Good stuff coming; this will just get us in the world.

Enjoy! xA

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Lianna woke up feeling...strange. There was no other way to describe it. She didn't feel sick, or even unwell, but there was some imaginary cloud hanging over her bed, some future frustration arriving too soon. She rolled over to check her phone. She should have been at work 30 minutes ago.

In a miraculous 5 minutes she managed to throw her hair in a bun, brush her teeth, and don her unofficial uniform: a black pencil skirt, light blue dress shirt, and black leather flats. She eyed a pair of sharp heels alone in the corner: too ambitious.

The rest of the morning confirmed her judgment; she managed to miss the bus, spill her coffee, and forget her lunch—and it was barely 9am. By the time she arrived at the towering, shimmering blue glass exterior of 80 Kent Place, she half expected the building to collapse onto her. As she approached, she mentally prepared for the picketers. Every day, all day there was a small mob outside of her office—a bunch of conspiracy theory nut jobs with no jobs of their own, she smirked. One of the protesters, an older man wearing a worn poncho, tried to step in her path to hand her a flyer, but she avoided his gaze and impatiently rushed past, glad for the meager privacy her headphones provided. HR had a strict "do not engage" policy, and Lianna was happy to comply.

80 Kent was the home of FMC, or Future Media Corporation: one of the largest and most prestigious producers of media in the world. FMC News was, and always had been, the most-watched news channel. Lianna worked in one corner of its truly impressive newsroom, a circular space in constant motion. Piles of paper never stopped shifting, journalists typed as if their lives depended on it, and intense phone conversations lit up the room, contributing to its unkempt, lively din. It was electric. But in Lianna's case, the excitement never went farther than that. As a lowly Production Assistant, or "coffee wench" as her coworkers dubbed her, her sole purpose was to keep the cogs of the machine moving and happy. It wasn't all bad, and she enjoyed it. Sure, there were a few uppity Ivy Leaguers that liked to give her a hard time, but minor humiliations were worth the possibility of a real career at FMC. Plus, her boss more than made up for their rudeness.

Bruce grinned up at her from his desk.

"Sleeping beauty! What an honor to see you."

Bruce Feinstein was one of the most respected journalists in the world. You'd never know it from his constant state of disheveled salt-and-pepper hair and wrinkled khakis, but the man had more Pulitzers and Peabody Awards than he knew what to do with. For lack of space he had started keeping them in copy paper boxes under his desk.

Lianna winced.

"I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened-"

Bruce held his hand up.

"Don't worry about it. Happens to the best of us. I know how that charming bastard Peter keeps you up at night."

Lianna smirked in reply. Peter was her lumpy cat. Bruce furrowed his brow, as if trying to remember something.

"But...I know there's something I'm forgetting..."

"Oh! The contracts for the Liberian thing?"

He beamed in recognition.

"Yes ma'am."

"On it."

Lianna rushed down the corridor to the legal department. Never a dull moment, she mused. She had only been with FMC for about a year. She was young enough that they paid her what barely qualified as a living wage, but Lianna wouldn't trade her coffee-slave-status for anything. This place had so much to offer. Every famous journalist from the past decade had started here, and usually as a PA. In this industry, everyone had to pay their dues.

A maze of hallways later, she slid to a halt in front of the entrance to legal, using the badge she kept on a lanyard on her neck to buzz in. She navigated a familiar pathway to Spencer's cube. Without even looking up, he held a file of contracts up for her. She grinned.

"You're way too fucking organized."

He smiled back. "Comes with the job."

She gratefully took the files.

"So, did you get into anything fun this weekend?"

He winced playfully.

"Frozen mac n' cheese and South Park?"

"Well, I think that's only slightly less sad than 'cat and Gilmore Girls'," she laughed.

Spencer feigned horror.

"Wow, yeah, you beat me. So what are you guys working on?"

Lianna gestured with the folder.

"There's a big story about to break on the Liberian military. They won't even tell me the details. Should be pretty noteworthy."

"I'd expect nothing less," Spencer grinned reassuringly.

He had an easy smile, Lianna mused. She wondered if he was seeing anyone.

"Uh, well...I'd better get back," she murmured, suddenly aware of how girlish she probably looked. Spencer saw her off with a friendly wave. As she made her way back to the newsroom, Lianna silently chided herself. This is why she was single. A more well-adjusted human being might ask Spencer to coffee, or not disclose the details of her sad, cat-centric weekend—but no, she had to botch any interaction with him.

On the polished path of blue linoleum she passed a huffing Bruce as he power-walked past her. He smiled broadly, not stopping as he spoke, "You got them! Great! If you want to get started on sorting and get the sources in a spreadsheet, I'll be right there! Oh! And those image releases!"

She grinned and gave him a quick thumbs-up.

If 'bitch work' is obtaining image use rights from dangerous militia men halfway around the world, I'm in, she mused. It was pretty incredible to work with an organization that was changing the world on a daily basis. Sure, there would always be those who felt threatened by FMC's reach, but the naysayers were often little more than paranoid anti-institutionalists. With governments everywhere wiretapping their own citizens, the world needed institutions like FMC.

Once at Bruce's desk she had hardly sat down before she felt her phone vibrate in her skirt pocket. She smiled to herself. Already forgetting something? Bruce, who was notoriously scatterbrained, would sometimes text important thoughts to her. Not everyone could be as organized as Spencer.

But when she saw the text, Lianna frowned. It was one word, but it made her spine shiver.

"Run."

Run? Fuck, what had she forgotten? A meeting? She nervously glanced at the clock. It was mid-hour. What was he talking about?

She began to reply.

"What am I miss-" But she didn't have time to finish before an explosion rocked the newsroom, throwing her from her seat. Her chin caught the edge of Bruce's desk on the way down, splitting her bottom lip open.

Her ears rang from the blast and she felt unsteady, even on the flat of the floor. The edges of her vision were blurred, but she was too disoriented to wonder if she was okay. She tasted blood.

Suddenly, a burst of noise brought her sharply to the present: gunfire.

A group of men clad in army fatigues rushed in, each brandishing a massive automatic rifle. The newsroom erupted into panic: Some dove under their desks, some sat frozen. Screams reverberated through the space. There must have been fifteen or twenty of the assailants now, evenly dispersed and standing alert, but idle, waiting for something. As if on cue, their leader sauntered in, dragging Bruce by the collar before flinging him over to his desk. The journalist slid to the floor, a few feet from Lianna. She tried to silently meet his eyes, but he was anxiously scanning the room.

The man that had escorted Bruce was dressed slightly differently—his clothes were more stylish than tactical. He had chestnut brown hair brushed back from his forehead, the sides cropped close, and eyes the color of water. His skin was ruddy and freckled, but the angular extremes of his face gave it a sharp sophistication. He had stopped only inches from Lianna, surveying the room like a hunter looking for his prey. He wasn't much taller than her, but from her position on the floor he might as well have been a giant.

He addressed everyone, but didn't yell; he didn't need to. The whole room was paralyzed, waiting for answers.

"Good morning, FMC. Lovely day, isn't it?"

He had a thick, but singsong accent—Nothern English...Irish, maybe? Some long-stored information in her brain attempted to rise to the surface, amid the ringing in her ears...He looked familiar...

The ring leader smiled, exposing perfectly white, almost vampiric canines. Some members of his group roamed between desks, rifling through papers.

"Now, if everyone would be so kind as to cooperate, we won't have any casualties, and you can all continue your day..."

As he went on, Lianna fixed her gaze on his pant leg, which was so close to her face that she could discern its fibers. Below it his shoes were tactical, but shined. Based on the weaponry, and the haircuts, the group could be military? Definitely trained professionals. She worked her way up, trying to form some kind of coherent thought. His hands were smooth, but had some scars. He fingernails had the trimmed, polished look of a stock broker. His face—

Suddenly, a thought occurred to her, freezing her heartbeat.

Shit. They weren't wearing masks. Everyone in the room could see them, and they didn't care. She had worked in news long enough to know that couldn't be good.

She took a shallow breath. All around, her coworkers cowered in terror. Some were sobbing. Bruce was a few feet away, sprawled on the tiles, his face stoic but white as a ghost.

As her head still spun, disoriented, she remembered: her phone. She discreetly scanned her surroundings, trying to keep her head still and not draw attention to herself. She quickly spotted it, under Bruce's desk. It was only about a foot to her left, but even if she got it, would she have time to dial? Painfully slowly, she lowered her left shoulder, trying to get into the position to easily slide her hand under the desk.

The leader went on. "Now, just one more thing. May I have a volunteer?"

The room went deathly silent. Lianna had started sliding her hand back now, a few inches closer to the phone.

Without warning, he turned his piercing gaze down to her. She froze.

"You'll do nicely. Pass me your badge, love."

Without taking her gaze off of him, she slowly reached up to her neck, searching beneath her collar for the lanyard. It was only then that she realized how terrified she was—her hands were shaking hysterically, making her efforts little more than fumbling. She looked down at her fingers in disbelief, trying to will them still.

The leader chuckled softly, and crouched down to her level.

"Here..." He started, bringing his hands up to her collar.

But his fingers only lingered there before gently tracing down her collarbone, stopping when he hit the first button of her shirt. He gently released it, exposing a corner of her bra, before meeting her eyes, a grin playing on his face. She glared back icily, her face flushing from embarrassment. His fingertips burned her skin as he reached inside her shirt for her badge, fingers brushing her bra as he brought it out of her shirt and over her head.

"Well then-" He looked down to check her badge.

"—Lianna. Ready to go?"

Her stomach dropped.

"W-what?"

"You thought we'd just snatch your badge? My, that'd be rude."

Suddenly, from his position on the floor Bruce shot up. "No! You can't—"

Without a word one of the men opened fire, hitting Bruce in the chest. The journalist instantly fell backwards, hitting the floor loudly. Lianna felt numb. She'd seen this scene endless times in movies, and this must be just as false a reality: a dream from which she'd soon wake or a strange play in which Bruce's limp body was made of plastic. Blood had begun to blossom across his shirt when a silent sob escaped Lianna's lips. The world felt like it was in slow motion. She felt some unfamiliar pressure on her upper body, for what felt like several minutes before she realized she had been pulled upwards, and was on her feet. Her shoulders were firmly held by one of the gunmen, as the leader of the group again addressed the office.

"Well thank you for the hospitality FMC, it's been lovely, but I'm afraid it's time for us to leave. Give our regards to the bosses."

With that farewell he turned swiftly to leave. Like a carefully choreographed dance, the gunmen spread across the perimeter of the newsroom and distributed themselves through its several exits, the last to leave angling themselves to face the room.

Lianna was pulled harshly by her upper arm as the pack descended into the halls. She had to remind herself that this was not, in fact, a dream. The quick, clipped steps of the gunmen in the halls alerted her to the eerie, utter silence of 80 Kent. Why was there no alarm? Where were the cops?

The group stopped at the door to the back stairwell, locked to non-employees. The ring leader made quick use of Lianna's badge, and to her shock the lock clicked open with a flash of green. This was all happening too fast. Soon they'd be out of the building. She had to do something. Guns or no, she knew going with them would not end well. She quickly slumped into dead weight, trying to make herself as heavy as possible. The man keeping her arm barely caught her before she reached the floor, cursing as she went down.

The leader of the group spun around, expression tense, "What's the problem?"

Lianna looked him straight in the eyes. "I'm not going any further. You don't need me anymore. I don't have any way to call the police."

The leader looked baffled for a moment, as if they had kidnapped a monkey who had suddenly learned how to talk. He shook his head in disbelief.

"I don't have time for this shite."

In one motion he hauled her up and spun her around, wrapping an arm around her neck and a hand behind her head.

Lianna felt herself begin to panic as his grip tightened.

"Wha—"

But blood flow to her brain was already slowing and the perimeter of her vision invaded by dark spots. She tried to thrash, to pry him from her throat, but she was no match for his strength. She was suddenly aware of her attackers scent: of the harsh, stiff fabric of his sleeve, the overpowering musk of gunpowder, machine oil and a faint citrus that somehow merged to create this custom scent profile, this other living human.

Then everything faded to black.