He takes each descending step carefully; it is concrete, solid underfoot but that doesn't mean that there are no traps set or hidden tricks awaiting intruders like himself. Reaching the bottom without incident, he smiles as he makes out a door in front of him. It is stiff, but moves reluctantly as he presses his shoulder against it. His hand fumbles for a moment trying to find a light switch, and much to Luke's surprise, a dim light flickering into life on the ceiling. The room is small and just tall enough for him to stand upright. The walls are mostly bare concrete, although paint peeling off in corners suggest that this was once a happier place than it is now. It is chilly, although as his fingers moved over the duvet on the single bed, he notices the many blankets beneath. Guess she isn't as tough as she tries to make out. He catches sight of a gun, a flash of panic streaking through him. She never goes very far without her weapon. Instinct drives him towards the door, urging him to leave while he still has the chance, but for some odd reason he approaches the weapon instead, picking it up in his hand. He sighs in relief; the gun is out of charge, and as he examines it further, he realises that it is completely useless. He recognises the weapon as the one she held the last time they met, the first time he had seen her face to face in over ten years. That look of utter horror, then of fear before her face composes itself into an expression of determination as she raises the gun slowly to mimic her partner. She presses the gun against her temple, silently daring him. She knows that he wants her alive. So much intelligence to gain, friends and comrades to avenge, justice to be served…
He presses a hand to his head to try and focus his thoughts. He is looking to find her, or at least some information on her whereabouts. He rummages through a drawer, finding nothing but a broken radio and an empty bottle of Cure-All heart medication. This catches his attention… Is she ill? The name on the bottle means nothing to him, but then again, it is probably stolen. One of the most wanted criminals of modern times, the joint head of what they called a rebellion, was hardly going to be able to walk into a pharmacy and fill out a prescription.
He moves onto a battered wardrobe, containing the bare essentials of clothing. Such a thing is probably a luxury for a girl like her. Her shoes, like the clothes, are sensible and durable, although they look well-worn and almost in need of repair. It is such a sharp contrast to his world where one couldn't afford to hold onto last season's wardrobe without fear of scandal. He frowns as he finds a small pile of men's clothes at the back; while the odd vest or shirt made perfect sense, there were trousers and shorts much too big for her to be wearing as spare clothing. It was policy out here for the leaders to live separately, often as far apart as they could risk. If one was discovered, it was only one to bury, not two or three. So what were these things doing here?
Luke moves onto a cardboard box beside the bed, still puzzled at his unusual discoveries. There was very little of interest in here, some sub-par medical supplies and one or two spare sheets. As he was about to give up, he uncovered a small tin box at the very bottom. The lock on it was easy enough to pick, and at first the contents were as uninteresting as the rest of the box; pictures drawn by children, bits of broken jewellery, and scraps of paper from the days when this country had been called England. Then towards the bottom, a sketch of them that would have been beautiful if not for the subject matter. He was sitting down, a large, cheeky grin on his face, a smudge of dirt on his cheek, while she had her arms wrapped around his neck, captured mid-laugh. They looked happy together. The clothing comes together with the picture; the result makes him sick to his stomach. He scowls, tossing the sketch aside, but the picture is quickly forgotten as he finds the last item in the box. It is an old, faded photograph, a little burnt, a little water-damaged, but the picture is still clear. Two children beam out at him, arms around each other with matching smiles. The boy is about eight, the girl he knows is about six. He remembers this photograph with a lurch of his stomach. He leaves quickly, not bothering to clean up after himself. If she kept that photo, she still cared. No, that was wrong, she wasn't supposed to care. She was the enemy, the traitor and the murderer.
If there was one thing she wasn't… She wasn't his little sister anymore.