[Corvid]

This story was written at the request of Darkstalker. It contains a character currently under license by Square-Enix, characters which are used in parody. No intent to infringe upon privately owned characters or works should be inferred by this story.

***

Defunesto cracked his knuckles. It had all led up to this.

The men preparing their weapons had gradually grown from a grab bag of soldiers-of-fortune, pirates, smugglers, ex-militia, and out-and-out hoodlums into something resembling a fighting force. They had fought side by side in a series of small but profitable engagements, and come to feel a sense of trust and camaraderie unusual in men of such disparate nationalities and backgrounds. More, they had come to believe that the high life the profits of their work had funded was no less than they deserved, and Defunesto the man who led them to it.

A third of them were going to die. Maybe as many as half. His contingency plans allowed for half.

And the remainder would be more than ready to avenge their fallen comrades.

Defunesto rubbed one finger over the eye patch. He would give no hint that the operation was anything other than a strictly professional matter, not until the others had a reason to make it personal. But he was not going to lie to himself. The emerald was the pragmatic goal that made his payback possible.

“Gentlemen.”

The very word elicited a snicker, but he had their attention. He gestured, and the screen behind him lit up.

“Our target on this mission: Lara Croft, countess of Abbington.”

There was a chorus of whistles and lewd declarations.

“Hey, Cap, I love a fox hunt as much as the next bloke, but can I stay home for this one? This is a three-man bang, not some kind of SWAT takedown.”

Defunesto's eye settled coldly on Rainey. Yes, he was going to be part of that one-third. Probably within the first thirty seconds.

“We need the target alive,” he continued, his voice rising over the banter. “That's going to be very difficult to accomplish. Mr. Rainey, the woman you see on screen there has spent more time in the middle of firefights than you have jerking off.”

There was a round of guffaws. “Not possible, she's not that old!” Phillips piped up from the back. Rainey hurled his cigarette pack at him.

“Croft is regarded as a sharpshooter on a par with the best of the SAS. A skilled tumbler, gymnast, and acrobat, she can evade and return fire from directions you can't even spell.”

He slammed his hand down on the table next to him.

“Some of you aren't paying attention. If you hear nothing else I'm saying, hear this: do not underestimate Lara Croft.”

He gestured again, and the lithe treasure hunter was replaced by a painting of a fist-sized emerald.

“This is the Eye of Sandura. Until very recently, it was believed to be a myth. A private collector has agreed to loan Ms. Croft a relic which she believes to hold the key to locating the eye. This relic, known as the Sigil of Seven, is located at a secure vault in Geneva. A vault that is keyed to open for only two people: the owner, and Lara Croft.”

“Why don't we-”

“The Sigil's owner lives on a private island under a twenty-four hour guard by a personal military that includes both air and naval surveillance. The management presiding over the vault will require Lara to come in in person, sign documentation, and submit to a retinal and fingerprint scan. The equipment used is sufficiently sensitive that it will absolutely not accept copies or photos of the eye and finger, and even removing an acceptable eye would cause the lens to distort in ways that would make it unacceptable identification. And if you're about to suggest we break into a Swiss vault, I'd ask that you shoot yourself right now.”

“We need Lara Croft. Alive. And able to walk into that vault in twelve days.”

“...grab her after she picks it up?”

“...And when would we do that? The public thoroughfare outside the row of high-security buildings? The armored limo, driven by her personal chauffeur, scheduled to pick her up ten minutes later? The airport, from where she'll go god knows where?”

“So she's just going to walk in and grab this 'Sigil' for us?”

Defunesto took a long, deep breath, and tried not to smile.

“Eventually, even the hard cases will do anything to make the hurting stop.”

The painting changed into a floorplan.

“Croft is currently unwinding incognito in this chateau near the Upper Jura Nature Reserve. The gate to the driveway is east...”

*

The chateau was “quaint”. “Quaint” was good. “Quaint” had substandard wiring, meaning no one had even tried to put in security cameras or lights. The telephone had been such a novel addition that no one bothered making the line anything other than blatantly obvious, which made cutting it that much easier.

Hedges to shadows. Over the wall, one and two at a time. Shadows to hedges to statuary, low and quiet.

Gestures and waves moved the black-fatigued men into their positions. Fists were raised as charges were planted. Three, two, one.

Breach.

Old plaster coughed as it burst inward, and the men spilled in like ants through the chateau's two new entrances. Defunesto gave another solid five count before he raised his shotgun and followed them.

The kitchen was dark, lit only by the light spilling over from the hallway. He edged around the blackness, listening to the tramp of boots on carpet. Ten seconds later he heard a male voice shout, followed by six sharp, successive cracks from a pair of nine millimeter semi-automatics.

His missing eye twinged at a memory.

He waited another five before making his own way into the hall as yelling and footfalls moved away, upstairs. The body was sprawled halfway down the hall.

Two in the chest, finding armor; two in the helmet, enough to stun and knock the head back. The last two were in the neck. After this, he knew, no more rounds from those damned pistols were going to hit armor again.

And sure enough, Rainey had found a way to bite it in less than thirty seconds.

He prowled slowly forward to the gallery, a marble-endowed expanse from which the majestic staircase rose into the private chambers of the chateau. He swept over the room's entry points. There weren't supposed to be any servants on call, but even expensive intel could have its faults.

Upstairs, the bark of pistols. The hiss of a gas-propelled taser. More gunshots. The explosion of a shotgun. A loud *crack*, and a yell, and a lot of cursing, all from male voices.

And more gunshots, and less cursing.

Six men spilled out of one of the upstairs doors like the room was on fire; another gunshot, and one went down, screaming and clutching his kneecap. The one in the lead made it down to duck behind the pillar at the bottom of the banister; the other four vaulted the bannister, taking their chances on a short fall, which proved to be the better bet. One more bark, and the man screaming at the top of the stairs took a round under the arm, and went still.

The man at the bannister turned to Defunesto. “Holy shit, wh-”

Defunesto made a slashing gesture across his neck, and held out a hand. Shut up. Wait.

The railing-vaulters recovered to cluster under the cover of the pillars. Moments later, the second breach group made their entrance to the gallery.

He held up his hand again as the first started through the door. To his credit, the man pulled back, a moment before a round from upstairs made wood chips explode from the door he had just taken shelter behind.

“Raincoats!” barked Defunestro.

There was a scramble in gear bags. He lifted his helment as he pulled his own gas mask from his satchel, buckling the unwieldy thing into place.

Let's see how you like this, bitch. Even aristocrats can't shoot well blind.

“Stefan?” A female voiced piped out of the upper floor. “It's you, isn't it, you blackguard. I'm coming for you.”

He hated that voice. That cocksure, clipped, aristocratic voice that came off like the advantage was hers, even outnumbered better than twenty to one.

He tapped his fist into his palm, and pointed at either end of the upper gallery. The man huddling in the doorway nodded, and conveyed the message backward. Moments later, a pair of grenades arced into the upstairs, trailing gas.

As the choking, pale blue clouds began to envelop the upper floor, Defunestro breathed a sigh of relief and slowly started up the stairs on quiet feet. The others hesitantly began to follow on either side of the stair.

There was the sound of shattering glass from one of the upper rooms. It made sense that she might try to ventilate the upper chambers if-

Except-

Fuck.

Defunestro took a deep breath and pulled the bottom of the mask up. “Park, take five and get to the outside of the chateau's eastern side. NOW, NOW, NOW!”

Park tapped five men as he hustled back down the stairs, who quickly took off in file behind him. Goddamn parkour, there was no telling how high a jump she might attempt. And then again, she might be waiting behind that door with full magazines.

Three gestures to the men behind him. Wait. I'm flashing the door. Be ready.

The door exploded open to a blast from his shotgun. He snapped the concussion grenade from his belt, and lobbed it through the opening, slamming his back against the wall and turning away.

The muffled -whump- and the shattering of more glass didn't betray any presence in the room. He rushed through the door.

It was a small bedroom, all delicate lace and satin, with a four-post bed and a bureau. The three still bodies, indelicately sprawled in their fatigues, seemed singularly out of place. The curtains shuddered in the breeze, abandoned by their windowpanes. He made a quick check of each corner, the closet, kicked the bed to see if there was a reaction.

Surrendering to the obvious, he approached the window.

For a moment, he saw her, illuminated by the lights that highlighted a fountain in the courtyard below. Clad in crop-top and shorts, ponytail swinging behind her as she scanned the area from her crouch, every inch of her looked just as it had on the day two years prior when she had taken his eye.

And then hornets buzzed past his ear, and he banished the memory, spinning away from the window.

Soft boots on cobblestone. She was running, and no way in hell were any of his flunkies going to catch her.

He returned to the window, brought up the shotgun, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger.

The beanbag round caught her between the shoulder blades. Even from over sixty feet away, he could hear her muffled cry as she staggered and fell to her hands and knees. He smiled for the first time in years.

Park and his five hit the courtyard a moment later. Prone, she turned on her side and opened fire. Park dived behind the fountain; two men yelled, clutching injured legs as they fell.

And then Lara's nine-milimeters fell on empty chambers.

The beanbag rounds, tasers, pepper spray, and batons were forgotten. Park and his men rushed her, and the sound of gloved fists and steel-toed boots striking flesh and cries of feminine pain filled the air.

Defunestro jerked up his mask again.

“PARK!” He roared from the window.

With a tight, defiant snap, Park turned to face their leader, raising a hand in an unwilling wait gesture to the other three.

“There will be time later. Get her hooded and bound! We need to get her and the casualties out, now!”

Park gave a curt nod, pulling the black hood from his pouch and yanking it down over the struggling woman's head as Defunestro turned back inside the chateau.

As the men hoisted the moaning and the lifeless from the chateau, he could feel their fury beginning to boil as the shock of adrenalin diminished. Every other mission they had been a part of since joining him had been a cakewalk, with little more than the occasional interesting scar to show for it. But this bitch-

Oh, yes. That bitch. He was going to make her pay.

And with nineteen men still whole, he would have plenty of help settling the score.

Day One 00:37

The hood lifted. Her dark brown eyes squinted, trying to adjust to the sudden, dazzling glare.

She was sitting in a chair. Her arms were held together behind her with a plastic handcuff-tie, and her legs were spread in an unladylike splay with climbing rope securing her to the chair at her calves and ankles.

The bunker-like room was bare concrete, made uglier by the humming of bare sodium lights hanging from the ceiling.

They were all looking at her. She smiled.

“Stefan Defunestro, it is you.” Her crisp English accent purred the words as though they had chanced to encounter on holiday. “How unfortunate. It would seem a gunshot wound to the head isn't all they sell it as, these days.”

He smiled, rolling up the hood and tucking it into his satchel.

“This is the part where you explain what it is you want.” Lara continued in the calm and patronizing tones of a teacher with a slow student. “Ransom? Information? Some kind of trade?”

Defunestro just stood, watching her from half a step away.

“Oh, don't be tedious, man. The less time I spend in your loathsome company, the happier I'm sure we both-”

His fist smashed into the side of her face, rocking her head back with a gasp of astonishment.

He faced her head-on, hands on his hips.

“That was unprofessional,” He said, his voice chillingly blank and clearly directed to the man behind him, not the woman in the chair. “When you hit her, be sure to hit her below the neck.”

He drove his fist between her spread thighs. Her eyes went wide, and a cry of equal parts pain, shock, and outrage exploded past her full, parted lips.

“Of course, if you only want to slap her-”

He struck her across the face again, first forehand, then backhand.

“-I'm hardly one to cry foul.”

“You disgusting maggot,” She murmured, words slipping past a split lip, “I knew you were a detestable piece of human excrement, but I never realized you got your jollies from beating up women.”

“There are all matter of things you don't know about me, Lara,” he returned, addressing her for the first time. “But you'll have days and days to find out.” He looked back. “Park? You and your three had a large part in the takedown; I think it's only fair I yield the stage.”

Park stood, crossing the floor like a cat with its hackles raised.

Excepting a couple of bruises, Croft still looked like a porn star, an effect not lessened by pulling her shoulders back and spreading her legs. Generous breasts swelled the fabric of her crop top, the garment leaving her ribs and taut abdomen bare. The shorts she wore clung to the sinuous contours of her hips, leaving the elegantly toned flesh of her legs likewise bare. Her lips begged to be kissed and bitten, her body to be thrown down on a bed. Only her eyes- still glaring out in fury and defiance- spoke against the overall image.

The Australian towered over the woman in the chair, and still her glare looked as though it would cut throats.

“You ended the lives of a lot of good men back there, lady.”

“I take issue only with the words 'good' and 'men'.”

His eyes flashed. Grabbing the chair with his left hand, he rose up and slammed his right fist into the muscle of her thigh. She went rigid in the chair.

“You ever been shot in the leg, bitch?” He snapped.

His fist hammered into the same spot again.

“I wish I could show you how what you did to my friends felt like.”
His knuckles smacked against muscle. Behind him, someone shouted out approval.

“But I can only try.”

Four, five, six times he punched the restrained woman's thigh as she shook in the chair, finally letting out a gasp of agony.

The three uninjured men who had followed Park into the courtyard clustered around him.

“That's a start.” one remarked.

“Yeah,” snarled Park, “but only a start.”

“Well, I can think of some ways this girl could ease some tension.” said one.

“And let out some frustration,” said another, a hand reaching out to cup one of her breasts. She glared at the man touching her, looking as though she wished she could bite him.

“Get her up.” Park ordered.

The moment her leg was untied, it kicked out. Park caught her foot and pushed, spilling her over backwards; the chair hit the floor with a thwack. Moving around to the side, he put a heavy boot down on her neck.

“Finish getting her untied,” He uttered, as though nothing had happened.

They hauled her to her feet, hissing and spitting.

“YOU WANNA SEE THE WHORE'S TITS?” Park roared.

The men watching the spectacle roared back.

Park grabbed a double handful of the fabric and tore, tore it apart, tore the flimsy garment off of her shoulders in his rage. Lara Croft's breasts tumbled with the violence, her rose nipples thrusting arrogantly out from the 34-Ds bouncing on her chest.

“GO ON! GIVE 'EM A FEEL!”

The men holding her shoved her out amidst the surging mob. Hands reached out to grab and grope; and soon, pinch, clutch, squeeze, twist, and slap as she was dragged through the audience. Indignant snarls turned to yells, and soon to sharp cries of distress as every man watching got his hands on the gunslinging archaeologist's chest.

When someone tried to get his hand down her shorts, Park had them pull her back, her creamy flesh turning a flushed pink from the men's attention.

“You'll get your shot,” he admonished. “Stefan said- us first!”

Moans of disappointment gave way to cheering and chanting.

They lifted her into the air to slam her body down on a table as she cursed at them.

She tried to kick Park again as he hauled down the waistband of her shorts, bringing a pair of v-cut silk panties into view; he responded with another brutal punch to her thigh, eliciting a shriek. The panties gave no more resistance to Park's violence than her top, the strings splitting at a pull, leaving her neatly trimmed pubic hair and her rose-petal labia bare.

“Animals,” she screamed, “Don't you dare-!”

Two men held her shoulders down, bound hands still behind her back, and Park grabbed her hips and pulled them to the edge of the table.

As he opened his pants, Lara clasped her legs shut, lifting and twisting her body on the table. Park's hands twisted her lower body straight and began to pry her thighs apart, thumbnails pressing into the marks from his punches until she began to moan in pain.

Her body shuddered and strained, but finally her strength gave way and her legs fell open, and in that moment, Park was on her.

“Do her, Park!” Someone in the audience bellowed.

“Fuck her 'til she breaks!”

“Bust that gash to tatters!”

She continued to fight every moment as Park moved the head of his cock to her pussy, twisting and bucking and cursing. His hands pushed down on her pelvis, and his hips jerked forward.

“NOOO!”

The room exploded with cheers as the big Australian pulled back and began to surge into the restrained tomb raider's body.

“PARK! PARK! PARK! PARK!”

The men holding her shoulders reached out to grab Lara's galloping tits, squeezing hard as Park thrust mercilessly into her cunt. The third man of the impromptu unit raked his nails over her ribs and belly as they hitched with her breathing, her lurching breaths desperately trying to bring control the pain of the rape.

“PARK! PARK! PARK! PARK!”

“Is this English Lady Cunt?” Park snarled, spitting in her face. “Because it feels just like any other whore to me!”

“Yeah! Make the whore pay!” one of the men at her shoulders growled, twisting her nipple until she bared her teeth, the cords in her neck sharp against her soft alabaster skin.

The table rattled as Park drove into her shaking body, driven on with a lust raised to a bonfire by the furious desire to punish this creature who had killed and injured his friends, this woman who fought like a man and had abandoned any deserving of mercy on the battlefield.

He came quickly, driven by the furious and violent pace, but not easily; the men at her shoulders had to push back to keep her from sliding backwards on the table, and the last thrusts that brought on his climax delivered a full measure of his violence on her helpless frame.

He pulled out all at once, and she shuddered as if he had withdrawn a weapon from a wound. Her body bucked as he shoved two fingers into her violated cunt, dredging out the sticky wad of his semen and spilling it onto the floor.

“You aren't good enough to have my baby, whore,” he spat, “and I don't want my jizm making your way any easier for anyone else.”

The man standing next to her hip held up a hand as Park stepped back, demanding the men holding her shoulders keep their place.

“Listen, Tam- Oslo- you've gotten to feel up her tits all this time. It's my turn for action.”

There were protests, but the odd man out ignored them, walking around the table to Lara's lower body.

She tried to hold her legs together, but her strength was waning, and Park, impatient to have another man inside her, grabbed her knee and lent assistance.

The “third man's” name was Jennings. It made an excellent chant. He was a talker.

“You like that? Huh? You like that, you little bitch?”

“Yeah, bounce those tits for me, baby! Bounce them high, give daddy a show! Yeah! Yeah!”

“Oh, am I going bad places when I roll my hips like that? Sorry, baby- oh, I did it a-ginnn...!”

“Aw, Call me a bastard again, bitch! I love how you talk! I feel like I'm reaming Mary fucking Poppins!”

Lara turned her head away, staring off into the distance. It only made him fuck her harder, savoring every wince and stifled moan all the more.

He was bouncing against her like a rabbit, a friction-raising crescendo, when he finally came.

“You like to shoot things, cunt? You like to shoot? BAM! BAM! BAM! There's three shots, right there!”

He followed Park's example in jamming his fingers into her when he came and spilling his seed on the floor.

“Oslo” was quiet, but mean. He wanted to drive agonizing cramps through her, and had the cock to accomplish that task. He pulled out slow and came back hard, driving into her to the hilt and grinding his hips against her pelvis, pummeling her cervix. His dark eyes watched her belly hitch inward as she held her breath with each thrust, struggling not to let the nauseating pain overcome her.

Then his eyes moved up to meet hers, and he smiled.

...please... She mouthed.

His fingers dug into her hips, and he began to fuck her harder and faster. To her shame, she started to let out soft cries, unable to get past the hurt he was inflicting inside of her without some kind of release.

He pulled out, and jerked his semen over her stomach and thighs.

“Turn her over,” growled Tam.

The watching men laughed raucously. Lara bucked on the table, catching Jennings in the chin with a knee. All joking manner gone, he came back to the table and slammed an elbow into her stomach, grabbing her cuffed wrist when she doubled up and helping the others get her onto the table on her front, her feet on the floor.

“Up the ass!” Someone in the onlookers yelled.

“UP THE ASS! UP THE ASS! UP THE ASS!”

“C'mon, Lara,” sneered Tam, pulling her shapely buttocks apart, “It's just like back in school, right?”

He pushed the head of his cock into the cleft of her heart-shaped ass, and pushed.

Then pulled back, and pushed again.
And pushed.
“C'mon... C'mon, you fucking slut, give it up--!”

Her fists clenched behind her back, her jaw rigid as she tensed.

Tam's hand smacked down on her ass with a ringing slap. And another. And he pushed.

“UP THE ASS! UP THE ASS!”

Then it was Jennings' hand smacking her ass. And Oslo, slapping her on the small of her back. And Tam pushed.

“Take it in, take it in, whore, I can wait all night-!”

“UP THE ASS!”

And Park slammed his fist against her hip, and Tam pushed...

“UP THE ASS!”

...And as Lara let out a scream to wake the dead, Tam penetrated her ass in a slow, burning, vengeful violation.

“Yes...!”

And the crowd roared their approval.

Tam glared at Oslo and Jennings. “Hold the goddamn table, I'm going to make this bitch a part of it.”

Shallow, shallow, deep- shallow, shallow, deep- He forced his way into her agonized rear entry, deeper with every third stroke, just enough time to dread each burning, churning thrust further into her guts.

Shallow, shallow, deep, shallow, shallow, deep, while her hands clenched and opened, convulsively, marking time as he sodomized her.

And finally, his hips smacked against her aching bottom, and then there was only deep.

And hard.

They held the table, and he bruised the front of her thighs against it, slamming into her like she was a machine that had stolen his money. Bouncing that ass, that magnificent, pert, tight ass, as he bored his way into her asshole.

His fist twisted in her ponytail, dragging her upper body upright as he continued to smash into her agonized bottom.

“Oy say, guvna!” He spat, “Oy seem to 'av found moiself roight bugga'd, oy dew!”

A tear slipped down her cheek as the crowd behind her laughed. He slapped her ass again, and again, and more tears slipped from her eyes, to her shame.

Then he slammed her down against the table, and with three more thrusts that lifted her to her toes, pumped his burning semen into her butt.

He pulled out with a jerk, and her legs gave out under her, dropping her to the floor in front of the table as the men started to applaud Tam's performance.

“So,” murmurred Defunestro, “Who's next...”

-TO BE CONTINUED-