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Autobiography	By : tartausucre Category: 1 through F > Firewall Views: 1918 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Firewall is the property of Warner Bros. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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If, like me, you're sometimes an impatient reader, know that Bill enters the story immediately (because I am an impatient writer!) so you won't be waiting long ;P
Once I finish this piece, I will write a second draft under a new name. There is also a sequel planned, but we'll see whether that remains the plan or whether it becomes the second half of this one.
I hope you enjoy it -- please review or at least rate.
Thank you :)
TAS x

Autobiography
by Tart Au Sucre

Margaux watched the twin beams of the taxi move off down the drive before she turned the key in the lock and opened the door.
The house smelled of damp -- more so today than usual, thanks to an English summer. She wrinkled her nose and stepped into the tiny square of Victorian tile that called itself an entrance hall. Margaux hung her keys over the stair banister and fumbled for the light, simultaneously toeing off her shoes.
The cat stalked out of the darkness of the dining room and wound itself around her legs, and she shooed it out of the way absently. It shot her a look of disdain and crossed the hall into the drawing room - Margaux heard a soft feline grunt as it jumped up onto the sofa. She reached through the doorway, turned on the light, and froze.
"Hello, Margaux."
Sitting casually on the far end of the sofa was a man. A long-limbed, blond, softly-smiling man. He took a sip out of her favourite mug -- it was shaped like the Tardis -- scratched the cat's head, and patted the seat beside him.
"Come and sit down."
It took Margaux a few seconds to find her voice. In the meantime she stood motionless in the soft light of the hall lamp, eyeing the intruder warily.
"...What are you doing in my house?"
"Now, Margaux, that's no way to greet a visitor. Aren't you going to tell me to make myself at home? Offer me some tea?"
"It looks as though you have that covered."
"That's true. But then you kept me waiting."
"I don't understand. Do we know one another?"
A fresh smile played across his features. Rather than being a comforting expression, the coldness of his pale blue eyes made her want to bolt for the barn and the emergency telephone.
"You're quite right. How rude of me." He stood and closed the gap between them, extending a long-fingered hand. "Bill Helling."
"...I definitely don't know you." Margaux looked down at his extended hand as though it were something venomous.
"No. No, you don't." He lowered his arm with a vague look of annoyance. "But I know you, Margaux. Everyone knows you these days. You're making quite a name for yourself, aren't you?" He turned and went back to the sofa, pushing the cat aside where it had sprawled out across his place. "Take a seat."
"I think I'll stand, thank you." She bit her lip. Her heart was racing, but she forced as casual an expression as she could manage. "I still don't know why you're here."
"You're going to help us make a lot of money."
"What?"
The stranger -- Bill -- took another sip of tea, then set down the mug and reached for the biscuit tin.
"You see, Margaux," he began, prying off the lid and rifling through the contents until he emerged triumphant with a custard cream, "you seem to have friends in high places." He took a bite and brushed the resultant crumbs from his lap. "A major publishing house. A Hollywood film studio. Actors. TV personalities. Your ex-husband... at least one of them would be bound to fork out, should anything happen to charming, talented little Margaux Butler."
"Get out of my house."
"I think you misunderstand the balance of power here, Margaux. I want ten million sterling, and you're going to get it for me."
"Get out, or I'll call the police."
She reached for her handbag, ready to grab her phone. Too late she heard the creak of the dining room floorboards: all at once her arms were pinned behind her back, the contents of her bag skittering across the tiles, a large hand clamped over her mouth.
"By the way, this is Robert. Say hello, Robert."
Margaux writhed desperately and kicked at the man behind her as he lifted her off her feet, yelling words that, though too muffled to make out, were obviously curses.
"I don't think there's any need to gag her. If she wanted to be rescued, she should have owned less land."
The man carried her into the drawing room and dropped her on the sofa. The cat, whose tail she had landed on, hissed and ran from the room.
"Now, Margaux," Bill fixed her with a disapproving look, "there's no need to get fractious."
"I think I have the right."
"Yes, I suppose you do. However... I think you'll find that co-operation is the best approach."
The other man -- broad as he was tall, with a permanent dark expression etched on his face -- sat down in the armchair opposite the sofa, took a gun from beneath his jacket, and began to polish it on the throw rug. Margaux's eyes widened and she felt a tight ball of dread settle heavily in her stomach.
"Let me make myself clear, Margaux -- we don't want to hurt you. It would be easier for us if we didn't have to. But we will, if you make us."
She nodded slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on the gun. "Alright."
"This doesn't have to be unpleasant." He finished the biscuit in another bite and continued as he chewed. "As long as everyone plays their part, we'll have our money, and you'll walk away with free publicity and a story to tell."
"...And what if they don't pay your ransom?"
Robert stopped polishing his gun and looked up. Bill stared at Margaux.
"They'll pay. Otherwise things will start getting ugly. Custard cream?" He rattled the tin in her direction. Margaux shook her head. "Robert, get the lady some tea."
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Autobiography