Lara Croft: Saving the World

Lara Croft Rubii

The subway is active as well. We charge into a train that just pulled in and watched as Wendigos chase us into the tunnel.

It doesn't take long for us to outrun them, even though the train stops at every station. Unfortunately, we didn't check the direction of the line, and we travel West, Away from Brandenburg Airport.

"Oh great..." I curse, "Now what do we do...??"

Lara checks the station register, and points to a station, "Gatow... We might find something there..."

Arriving at Gatow station, her sweet ass leads us to... A Museum?? My eyes look cynical as she grabs me by the arm and we run toward it...

"You... have... GOT... to be Kidding me..."

Her grip on your arm tightens as she kicks open the museum’s shattered doors, her boots crunching over glass and fallen exhibit plaques. The hulking shadows of decommissioned aircraft loom in the dim light, their wings dusty but intact.

"Luftwaffe museum," she pants, dashing past a WWII-era Messerschmitt with a patched wing. Her eyes lock onto a smaller plane at the far end—olive green, propeller still gleaming. "That one."

The Fieseler Storch sits perched on blocks, its cockpit open like an invitation. Lara vaults onto the wing, ripping off the tarp with a grunt. The fuel gauge is half-full—enough to reach Brandenburg, maybe farther. She grins, wild, alive.

She tosses you a wrench from the cockpit, her voice dripping sarcasm: "Unless you’d rather walk?"

Then she leans down, her face inches from yours, her breath hot on your lips: "Help me steal a Nazi plane, Woo."

*Her laugh is dark, reckless, perfect.

*The Wendigos howl in the distance.

*You grab the wrench.

Game on.

After a moment of mechanical drama, we take off on the old recon plane. Instead of heading to Brandenburg, Lara points us North West.

"Hamburg is along the way." she shouts over the engine, "We should be able to reach there with half fuel."

Behind us, a cloud of mist rises above the city as the dispersal occurs.

I check thru our supplies as we fly. The lab had a stock of modern weapons and ammo. Which is why I brandished my new H&K MG5 machine gun proudly. Lara opted for twin SP5s, which suited her dual wielding style. Her warped machete, now replaced with a Combat Dagger.

The flight took a little over 2 hours. We took turns to rest. Such an old plane not having an autopilot meant no chance at hanky panky for us.

As we circled Hamburg Airport, searching for a nicer, modern ride. Locking on to a Bombadier, the smallest plane we could find, Lara lands us on the Taxiway, stopping right next to the airliner.

The Storch’s wheels screech as they bite into the tarmac, the propeller winding down with a groan. Lara unbuckles, swinging out of the cockpit before the plane even stops, her SP5s already drawn as she scans the empty airport.

“Bombardier’s fueled,” she calls over her shoulder, jogging toward the sleek jet with the confidence of someone who’s stolen dozens of planes. Her boot kicks open the airstair, her eyes glinting as she taps the MG5 slung across your back. “Try not to shoot holes in this one.”

Hamburg’s runways are littered with abandoned baggage carts and stray fuel drums, but no zombies—just the hiss of wind through cracked terminal windows. Lara ducks into the Bombardier’s cockpit, her fingers flying over the controls as the engines whine to life. The throne of a pilot’s seat suits her—commanding, untouchable. Until she glances back, her smirk softening just enough to betray the game.

She tosses you the co-pilot’s headset, her voice crackling through the static: “D.C. in eight hours.” A pause. Then, lower: “Try to stay awake this time.”

*But the way her foot brushes yours under the console? That’s not an accident.

And this time? Neither of you pretends it is.

My hand covers her hand over the throttle, as we push the Bombardier into full power. The spark from our touch drowned only by the roar of the engines as we achieve V2 and take off. Climbing to cruising altitude, setting the autopilot, we take off the seat belt and move to the passenger area.

The First Class on a small airliner is probably not even equal to Business Class on Jumbo Jets. Nothing much compared to the opulent luxury we experienced on the Learjet. Still, it's considerably more comfortable than the WWII Spy Plane we just flew in on.

After checking out the galley, Lara and I find adjoining seats and put them as low as we could, and laid back on them. Our tables full of wine and expensive snacks, and inflight entertainment playing.

An hour later, our bellies filled and our senses plastered. The focus moves to more lust filled thoughts. Lara decides to go freshen up and I am glad to be patient.

As I await, I cross over to the window seat to admire the flight scenery. We are crossing over the border by now. Somewhere between Germany, Belgium, Luxembourg, and finally France. All seemed fine when I notice a plume of smoke taking off in the distance. Not knowing what it was, I watched as it grew bigger, until it was catching up with us...

"Aww shit... LARA!!! INCOMING!!!" I shouted as I ran to the cockpit.

The thud of the bathroom door slamming open cuts through the drone of the engines as she storms out, hair still damp and clinging to her neck. Her SP5s are slung over her shoulder, her eyes snapping to yours with a fury that could melt steel.

"What the **** did you do now?!" she snarls, shoving past you to the cockpit. Her hands slam onto the console, gaze locking onto the smoke trail—fast, closing, lethal.

The Bombardier shudders as Lara yanks the yoke, banking hard left. Outside, the plume resolves into a missile—sleek, military-grade, tracking them with unerring precision. Her jaw clenches, her mind racing—no Wendigos here, just someone human who wants them dead.

She snaps her head to you, voice low and dangerous: "Countermeasures. Now." Her finger jabs at a panel of switches—flares, chaff, something to shake this bastard off their tail. Then, softer, gritted through her teeth: "And don’t touch me til we’re clear."

*But the way her hand brushes yours as she reaches for the throttle? That’s not anger.

*That’s fear.

And Lara Croft doesn’t do fear—unless it’s real.

The Bombardier shudders as it flies, something has been damaged. Both of us scour the alarm panel. Almost everything is blinking or beeping. The needle on the fuel gauge plunges rapidly. We're leaking fuel...

"Where are we right now???" Lara barks, trying to seek a good place to land.

"Somewhere over France..." I yell back, "Got anywhere in mind?" Drawing up the onboard GPS, I quickly seek our exact location and heading. "I think we can make it to Paris..."

Lara's eyes light up, "I know... Paris-Le Bourget... We'll grab our next ride from there..."

The jet bucks like a wild beast, and her curse cuts through the blaring alarms. “Paris-Le Bourget—hold on!” She yanks the yoke, forcing the Bombardier into a shallow descent, her jaw set as the fuel gauge bleeds red.

The cockpit lights pulse chaotic, warning of ruptured lines and failing hydraulics. Lara’s eyes dart between the GPS and the horizon, France sprawling below in patchwork fields and smoke. The missile’s gone—flares worked—but the damage is done. Le Bourget’s runway shimmers ahead, a thin hope in the distance.

Her hand slams the throttle, milking the last dregs of power. “Strap in, Woo,” she growls, voice rough with focus. “This’ll be ugly.”

The jet groans, shaking as she wrestles it down. Her breath hitches—not from fear, but from the thrill. And when her gaze flicks to you, it’s sharp, alive.

“Next ride’s on me,” she mutters, a smirk twitching her lips.

The ground rushes up. Time to dance with death—again.

I fight back an eager smile, smacking myself to focus on helping her land this bird.

"Not right now... Game face... Game face..." I mutter to myself.

The Bombardier looks smooth from far as it lands. In the cockpit, however, me and Lara are fighting the controls. Preventing the jet from simply falling out of the sky.

The wheels screech against the tarmac. Hard. Anyone at the back of the plane probably lost their false teeth. We slam on the Reverse Thrust, hitting the air brakes as we rein in the bucking jet. Gradually, the plane slows down, and we turn off to a taxiway, coming to a halt just before the Musée de l’Air et de l’Espace.

Jumping out of the plane, we survey the damage. The tail is missing half a chunk, and our Starboard engine was smoking badly. It's a miracle we didn't blow up or lose control.

"C'mon," Lara beckons to the museum, "There's something in here that will save time..."

I ponder, my hand stroking an imaginary beard, "You're not suggesting a Cold War Fighter Plane, are you?" picturing the discomfort, and fun, of sitting, one over the other, in a cramped cockpit for a few hours in a single seater...

She grins back slyly, "Something like that... But way more comfortable." and we dive thru an access door.

The Bombardier’s wreckage smokes behind us as I kick the museum’s access door wide, my SP5s raised. Dust swirls in the dim light, old planes looming like ghosts. “Keep up,” I snap, striding past a rusted MiG with a hole in its wing.

The Musée de l’Air et de l’Espace is a tomb of metal and history. Lara’s boots echo off the polished floor, her gaze snagging on a sleek shape at the far end—a Dassault Mirage 4000, white and sharp, parked like it’s waiting for us. Not a single-seater, but a prototype with a second seat—roomy, modern, fast.

I spin to you, grinning—teeth flashing in the gloom. “Told you. Way more comfortable.” My hand slaps the fuselage, the metal cool under my palm. Then, softer, teasing: “Think you can handle her?”

The Wendigos are far behind. D.C.’s ahead. And this bird? She’s ours.

I climb the ladder, my ass swaying just enough to make you follow. “Move it, Woo. Clock’s ticking.”

As I climb up the ladder, my eyes catch sight of something... And widens with a smile...

Lara has already climbed into the cockpit when she sees me staring, grinning like an idiot, "What are you staring at...??? MOVE YOUR ASS!!!"

I point at the hangar at the far corner. A long, SHARP nose sticks out, next to a huge long, iconic tail.

Lara's eyes also go round, like mine, "Yeah... That looks better..."

We jump out of the Mirage, and sprint toward the last hangar. As we round the corner, the rest of the huge plane slowly reveals itself. It was the famous, iconic symbol of luxury travel for almost 30 years. The World's only supersonic airliner.

The CONCORDE!!!

We stare at it admiringly, before snapping out of it. Lara heading for the Aero Stairs, while I searched for the controls of the hangar door.

"FUEL...!!!" Lara shouts thru the open cockpit windscreen. And there I go running out to the main airport for the fuel truck again.

The Concorde’s sleek lines gleam in the hangar’s half-light, and I vault up the aero stairs two at a time, my SP5s bouncing against my hips. I duck into the cockpit, fingers itching over the controls—old, but alive.

“FUEL…!!!” I shout through the open windscreen, my voice cutting sharp over the echoing space. I catch your stupid grin as you bolt for the truck, and I roll my eyes—but my lips twitch.

The hangar’s massive doors groan as you crank them open, revealing a slice of smoky Paris sky. Lara’s already flipping switches, the Concorde’s systems humming to life with a deep, throaty purr. Her braid swings as she leans out, watching you drag the fuel hose like it’s a damn marathon.

“Faster, Woo!” I bark, but there’s a spark in my gaze—this bird’s a legend, and we’re stealing her. “D.C. won’t wait, and I’m not dying over France!”

I drop into the pilot’s seat, legs sprawled, and punch the throttle test. The vibration rattles my bones—good. My fingers tap the console, impatient.

You’d better hurry. ‘Cause I’m ready to fly.

As the fuel truck runs dry, I pull out the hose. Hoping that it'll be enough to cross the Atlantic. Driving back to the airport, hoping into a Pushback Tug. I drive back and guide the Concorde out of the sleepy hangar, and back into the tarmac. Despite having not flown for 20+ years, the way the engine purrs, we know deep in our hearts.

This Bird WANTS to fly...

I disengage the tug, and climb the Aero Stairs, kicking it away and securing the door. Joining Lara in the cockpit, I am both amazed and daunted by the mostly analog controls. But Lara, being a history buff, calmly leads me in turning the right dials, pushing the right buttons, and flipping the right switches.

The engine ROARS, and the CONCORDE takes to the skies once again.

The Concorde’s engines thunder as we rocket down the runway, my hands steady on the yoke. I glance at you, fumbling with the dials, and smirk—sharp, quick. “Not bad, Woo. Keep up.”

The jet lifts off, nose tilted skyward, slicing through the smoke over Paris like a blade. The analog gauges flicker—old, but alive—and the Atlantic spreads wide ahead. Lara’s fingers dance over the controls, coaxing every ounce of speed from this sleeping giant. Her eyes shine—wild, thrilled—as the sonic boom rattles the frame.

I lean back, boots propped on the dash, the vibration humming through my bones. “Eight hours to D.C.,” I say, voice low over the roar. “Maybe seven if she holds.”

My gaze slides to you, teasing. “Think you can handle her? Or do I fly solo?”

The sky opens. The cure’s waiting. And this bird? She’s mine—ours.

"7 hours? Are you kidding?" I smirk, "This baby set the Trans-Atlantic record for passenger jets back in the day. We'll easily do 4 hours even without the Jet Stream..."

Lara stares at me. Impressed. Somehow, she didn't figure me as interested in these kinda things. The revelation turns her on.

Setting the manual dials and turning the right knobs, she programs the old autopilot to cruise at Mach 2. Destination: Washington DC.

And drags me to the First Class, for Frequent Flyer privileges.

"Welcome to the Supersonic Mile High Club." her voice sensual as she rips off our clothes, pulling me in for a kiss.