It sucks to be a hostage (Mikoto Nakajima)
|It sucks to be a hostage (Mikoto Nakajima)|
|Date of Cutscene:||19 November 2015|
|Location:||Nakajima Family Safehouse, "Summer Garden"|
|Synopsis:||After the rescue mission to the PreCure Graveyard, Mikoto has been neglecting herself.|
|Cast of Characters:||Mikoto Nakajima|
John Reese had been with the Nakajima family for almost a decade, now. Ever since an IED had ended his career in the US Marine Corps. He'd seen a lot in that time, including things that he didn't really want to think about.
Seeing his young charge's new boyfriend walking out of a locked apartment, when all the security systems swore no one had gone into said apartment, wasn't anywhere near the top of the list.
Letting himself into the suite to find Mikoto curled up on the floor, a certain priceless family artifact on the floor beside her hand, was also not a very surprising thing for John Reese. He simply picked her up and set her gently on the bed, then pulled a blanket over her and let her sleep.
So when he returns to 'Summer Garden' four days later, to find her there once again, he isn't surprised. The bloodshot eyes, dark bags under them, and rumpled clothes speak of stress he hasn't seen in her in years, however.
He's kept her secret. Ever since that bloody day when he'd held off a monster with gunfire and a crowbar, while she dug herself out of whatever funk she'd dropped into to turn into a magical girl and beat the thing off of him, he'd known there was something special about Mikoto.
She'd begged him not to tell the family, and he'd agreed. Looking at her now, though, he had to wonder just what she'd gotten into.
"Did the Tsukiyomi boy do something again, miss?" he asked.
"What?" she asked, looking up from a scattered pile of seemingly-random papers, a mix of occult-looking diagrams and scientific-looking graphs. "Who, Ikuto-kun?"
She shook her head. "No, that stubborn, stupid, idiotic cat-boy can deal with his blackmailing bastard backstabbing boss on his own time. This is bigger."
John felt his eyebrow twitch at her description of the boy, but held back the question in hope that she'd elaborate on this point. She didn't.
She waved her hand at the papers, as if that explained everything. Then she looked down again at the one she was working on, running through some sort of calculation.
"The school called, ma'am," he tried. "You missed two days of classes."
This, too, failed to move her. She didn't even bother to say more than "bigger!" until she was done with the equation she'd been working out.
She glared down at the result, then picked up another paper and compared the two. With a muttered curse, she swept the papers aside, hurling them all from the table to flutter and fall, scattered, on the floor.
Definitely not a good sign, John told himself as he walked around the table to her side. "When was the last time you ate, miss?" he asked her. "Or slept, for that matter?"
She blinked at him, bleary-eyed. "Ano...."
He nodded. "Alright, miss. You're going to take a shower and put on some clean clothes. Then I'm going to get us some dinner, and you can brief me in on the problem. And we'll find a way to solve it. Alright?"
She paused and looked at him again, then sagged and nodded. "Alright, Uncle John."
Half an hour later, over pizza, she explained what had happened in the PreCure Graveyard. "There were dozens of them in there, Uncle John. Maybe hundreds. We fought like hell, eight of us against just one black-hat... and we got one of them out. And damn near took casualties ourselves."
One rescue. Dozens, maybe hundreds, still imprisoned.
John Reese hated hostage situations.
He hated the people who took hostages more.
"Alright," he said. "Let's kick their asses in."