A fanfic for the movie Kingsman: The Secret Service. I wanted to pair Gazelle with Harry because i feel that even though they are different, they are also the same in many ways. They are both dedicated to their cause, intelligent, and trained to kill. The two come from different backgrounds one is white the other brown, one is disabled and the other abled, which will make it all the more interesting to explore their relationship in this fanfic.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
It was unexpected. How the knife sliced into her arm. Small. Insignificant. Yet, it had stunned Gazelle, because no one had ever been close enough to lay so much as a hand on her, let alone a knife. She landed on her blades, sliding across the floor, then looked up at the young man, the valet Valentine had spoke about, enraged.
The little brat just wouldn't die, no matter what she did. He should've been died with the slice of her blade runners, sealing his fate.
Gazelle stood onto her blade runners, suddenly feeling a slow but steady burning sensation on her forearm. She looked at the Kingsman who simply smirked as if he had already won. She looked down at her arm, her heart freezing at the sight of her skin hardening, turning green. It spread like a grotesque rash over Gazelle's skin. She wanted to kill him, but was unable to move, like a frozen statue, her heart twisting in pain.
So this was it.
Choking, she collapsed on to the ground clutching her chest.
Her vision blurred and never in her life, so much as now, had she felt so much agony. So much fear.
What was beyond this world... the world that began to fade before her very eyes... What would happen to Gazelle or Valentine...?
Anything would have been better than this. A quick shot to the head would have relieved her of this burden. This torture.
But somewhere deep within her, a voice, cold and harsh, bit into the very depths of her soul.
You brought this on yourself.
No... No. No!
Gazelle denied it vehemently. I wanted justice! Justice...
I fought for a good cause....
You reap what you sow...
No. no... Gazelle's voice screamed.
She had not brought this on herself... They were the enemy. Couldn't the Kingsmen see that mankind was cursed...? Doomed...?
She closed her eyes and let the bliss of darkness took her.
Gazelle was five years old, looking down at her stumps. Her parents held each one her hands, squeezing it in comfort.
"Will I walk anymore?" she asked.
Her legs were gone and a new chapter of her life would begin.
"Yes," her father said, "we just have to wait for your body to heal. Then you will get new legs."
Gazelle's mother nodded in agreement.
"It isn't the end of the world," she said. "Life will go on. You were very brave in surgery today, but remember: hold on to that courage, no matter what."
"I promise," Gazelle said, holding her mother's gaze.
She would live. And her parents would help her along the way. There was light at the end of this dark tunnel, if only she was steadfast in faith.
Gazelle started to open her eyes, pitch darkness greeting her. Was she dead? In limbo? Gazelle's heart rate increased.
Where am I, her inner voice screamed. In hell? Where-
Gazelle's back touched something hard. Cold. She patted the surface gently with her hands, feeling the rough, grainy texture of concrete.
Not Heaven, nor Hell, but for all intents and purposes it might as well be.
She was in some cell, caged like an animal.
Gazelle exhaled, resting her head back against the wall. No doubt it was the Kingsman. She scowled in the darkness and cursed the boy who got her in this mess. If she got the chance, Gazelle would kill him first.
She was going to cross her legs when she noticed something off... The weight of her blade runners was gone.
Oh, no. They didn't... She slowly slid her hands down her her thighs to the place where her knees should've been joined to her blade runners, but felt nothing except for the curved shape of her stumps.
They had disarmed Gazelle. Stripped her of her armor, her pride. Never had the amputee ever felt as naked as she had at that moment. Not since she was five, and had accepted the new life where she would be, dare she say, disabled.
Oh, damn them... Damn the Kingsman. Damn them all!
Maybe they would starve her to death, too, while they were at it. A part of her could not help but wish that were the case. That way, she would not be seen in such a pitiful, defenseless state. Death would have been better than whatever they had in store for her. Of that, Gazelle was sure.
As if on cue, she heard the sound of a metal door creak open. She squinted her eyes at the sudden entry of the light that came in from the hall, and cursed when they flicked on some more bright fluorescent lights.
Like they hadn't had enough.
After her eyes slowly adjusted to the intrusion, Gazelle looked up at the new arrival. What she saw boggled her mind.
It was impossible. Impossible!
"You should be dead," Gazelle said, her eyes wide with shock. "Like fucking gone! Annihilated! "
Damn, Valentine was such a bad shot.
"Unfortunately for you, I'm very much alive," said the Kingsman, "and I believe you should be dead as well. Eggsy cut you with the most poisonous substance known to man, and yet here you are. Imprisoned and-" he glanced at her stumps, "blade-less."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Gazelle demanded, hating to be reminded of her defenselessness.
"Galahad," he replied smoothly. "Now if you would stop your scowling, perhaps we can talk in a civilized manner like adults, unless you want to make yourself at home. In this prison."
Gazelle frowned, folding her arms.
"Fine. Just sit down or something. I hate it when people stand over me. "
Despite her rough manner of speech, Gazelle knew that this "Galahad" knew who really had the upper hand. Without her weapons, she had no choice but to sit here, be interrogated, and lectured (who knew what the bloody Brit wanted), or languish in this prison.
For now, she was at his mercy.