Fic: Beatification
Title: Beatification
Author: brighteyed-jill
Rating: R for violence
Warning: Spoilers through 2x11, “Powerless.” Darkish.
Summary: Monica never wanted it to go this way.
Author’s Note: Written for Round 1, Challenge 7 at heroes_las
Monica kicked the third man in the face, twisting at the last moment so her momentum carried her into a roll. She came up facing the tall guy again, and rammed her palm sharply into his chin. She heard a crack, but she didn’t turn back to watch the thug crumple to the ground.
Fighting was never her first choice. She had nothing like Niki’s super strength to draw on, but she didn’t need it. Micah added new videos to her iPod every day. She watched them all without protest, although each new set of martial arts moves, each new way to kill a man left her feeling more hollow, more like one of Micah’s machines.
“Good job.” Micah appeared behind her, a cell phone open in his hand connected to an earpiece. “Found the money yet?”
Monica shook her head mutely, and adjusted her hood. These crooks were small time racketeers, hassling business owners in the neighborhood for protection money. They weren’t arsonists or killers, but they’d hit the beauty salon where Nana went, shook down Mrs. Thibodeaux for six hundred dollars, and that was how they’d gotten on Micah’s radar.
“Get going,” he said. “The neighbors called 911 when they heard gunshots. We’ve got about four minutes until the cops come.”
“How’d you know they called 911?”
Micah waved the phone in his hand, and Monica didn’t bother to ask for clarification. Whatever Micah told machines to do just worked, no reason needed. She left him listening intently to his earpiece and headed upstairs, keeping an eye out for a briefcase or a bag-anything that looked like it might hold a couple thousand dollars in stolen money.
As she turned the corner at the top of the stairs, Monica felt a hand clamp over her mouth, and an arm pulling her back by the waist. She felt the cold press of steel where the butt of a gun jabbed sharply into her hip. “Shhhh,” her attacker whispered in her ear. “Wouldn’t want to scream and put that little sidekick of yours in danger.”
Monica took no pleasure in hurting this man. She just reacted, replaying a Judo move she’d seen in an action movie last week: she twisted to the side, pulling his arm down and flipping him so he landed splayed on his back. She barely stopped herself from completing the move as she’d seen it in the movie-by stomping on his throat. Instead, she unleashed a kick that impacted against his kidney. Then she snatched the gun out of his hand. She knew how to fire it-Micah had put a firearms orientation video on her iPod on Tuesday-but she wasn’t going to. Not unless she had to. She left him moaning on the landing.
In the room where the man been hiding, she found a duffel bag filled with cash. Monica felt a happy thrill at last when she thought of the look on Mrs. Thibodeaux’s face. This was what a hero was supposed to do: help people. A hero wasn’t supposed to kill. A hero wasn’t supposed to want revenge.
The stairway squeaked, and Monica was pointing the gun before she realized what she was doing. She lowered it when she saw it was Micah. “One of them’s still moving,” he said, looking pointedly at the man on the ground. It sounded like a complaint.
“I got the money,” Monica said. “Let’s go.” She took Micah’s hand, but his feet remained stubbornly planted. “What?” She heard the wail of sirens approaching in the distance, and tried again to lead him down the stairs. He pulled his hand out of her grip.
“Were these the guys?” Micah asked.
Monica didn’t ask what he meant. All of the thugs who’d captured Monica were on Micah’s list. Anyone who’d had anything to do with Niki’s death. It was all he talked about, all he thought about, and it was the reason they went out together every night after Nana had gone to bed. She looked at the man lying in the hallway, curled up and groaning in pain.
“Were they?” Micah asked.
Monica thought about it. She’d seen them much closer than Micah. She knew their faces beyond a shadow of a doubt, but she’d never known how much he saw that night. If these had been the men who kidnapped her, the men responsible for Niki’s death, would it be over? Could she and Micah stop tracking down scumbags night after night? Micah watched her expectantly. “These weren’t the guys,” she said at last.
Micah nodded, satisfied, and Monica frowned. He had already known. He just wanted to hear the truth from her, hear her acknowledge that justice was not yet done. She wondered what would have happened if she’d lied.
“We’ll get them,” Micah said grimly. “Heroes always win.” He started down the stairs.
Is that what heroes did? Monica shook her head. Every day since Niki’s death, Monica’s definition of the word “hero” had slid a little further away from what she’d once imagined.
“You bitch.” The injured man had gotten to his feet, clutching his side with one hand, a knife shining in his other hand. “Give me back my money.”
Monica looked at him, disgusted. He wasn’t one of the ones who’d kidnapped her and killed Niki. He probably wasn’t any kind of big-time criminal. He was the same as the others she and Micah had been dealing with: minor hustlers and thieves and users. The city seemed to have an endless supply of them.
When Monica shot him, it felt as easy and natural as turning a cartwheel. She’d seen men put a bullet, one bullet, right into the forehead, and that’s what she did, perfectly.
She dropped the gun next to the body. Micah came pounding up the stairs, but Monica blocked his way at the top. He looked past her to where the body lay heaped on the floor, then back at her questioningly.
“Let’s go,” she said. “We’ve got work to do.”
Author: brighteyed-jill
Rating: R for violence
Warning: Spoilers through 2x11, “Powerless.” Darkish.
Summary: Monica never wanted it to go this way.
Author’s Note: Written for Round 1, Challenge 7 at heroes_las
Monica kicked the third man in the face, twisting at the last moment so her momentum carried her into a roll. She came up facing the tall guy again, and rammed her palm sharply into his chin. She heard a crack, but she didn’t turn back to watch the thug crumple to the ground.
Fighting was never her first choice. She had nothing like Niki’s super strength to draw on, but she didn’t need it. Micah added new videos to her iPod every day. She watched them all without protest, although each new set of martial arts moves, each new way to kill a man left her feeling more hollow, more like one of Micah’s machines.
“Good job.” Micah appeared behind her, a cell phone open in his hand connected to an earpiece. “Found the money yet?”
Monica shook her head mutely, and adjusted her hood. These crooks were small time racketeers, hassling business owners in the neighborhood for protection money. They weren’t arsonists or killers, but they’d hit the beauty salon where Nana went, shook down Mrs. Thibodeaux for six hundred dollars, and that was how they’d gotten on Micah’s radar.
“Get going,” he said. “The neighbors called 911 when they heard gunshots. We’ve got about four minutes until the cops come.”
“How’d you know they called 911?”
Micah waved the phone in his hand, and Monica didn’t bother to ask for clarification. Whatever Micah told machines to do just worked, no reason needed. She left him listening intently to his earpiece and headed upstairs, keeping an eye out for a briefcase or a bag-anything that looked like it might hold a couple thousand dollars in stolen money.
As she turned the corner at the top of the stairs, Monica felt a hand clamp over her mouth, and an arm pulling her back by the waist. She felt the cold press of steel where the butt of a gun jabbed sharply into her hip. “Shhhh,” her attacker whispered in her ear. “Wouldn’t want to scream and put that little sidekick of yours in danger.”
Monica took no pleasure in hurting this man. She just reacted, replaying a Judo move she’d seen in an action movie last week: she twisted to the side, pulling his arm down and flipping him so he landed splayed on his back. She barely stopped herself from completing the move as she’d seen it in the movie-by stomping on his throat. Instead, she unleashed a kick that impacted against his kidney. Then she snatched the gun out of his hand. She knew how to fire it-Micah had put a firearms orientation video on her iPod on Tuesday-but she wasn’t going to. Not unless she had to. She left him moaning on the landing.
In the room where the man been hiding, she found a duffel bag filled with cash. Monica felt a happy thrill at last when she thought of the look on Mrs. Thibodeaux’s face. This was what a hero was supposed to do: help people. A hero wasn’t supposed to kill. A hero wasn’t supposed to want revenge.
The stairway squeaked, and Monica was pointing the gun before she realized what she was doing. She lowered it when she saw it was Micah. “One of them’s still moving,” he said, looking pointedly at the man on the ground. It sounded like a complaint.
“I got the money,” Monica said. “Let’s go.” She took Micah’s hand, but his feet remained stubbornly planted. “What?” She heard the wail of sirens approaching in the distance, and tried again to lead him down the stairs. He pulled his hand out of her grip.
“Were these the guys?” Micah asked.
Monica didn’t ask what he meant. All of the thugs who’d captured Monica were on Micah’s list. Anyone who’d had anything to do with Niki’s death. It was all he talked about, all he thought about, and it was the reason they went out together every night after Nana had gone to bed. She looked at the man lying in the hallway, curled up and groaning in pain.
“Were they?” Micah asked.
Monica thought about it. She’d seen them much closer than Micah. She knew their faces beyond a shadow of a doubt, but she’d never known how much he saw that night. If these had been the men who kidnapped her, the men responsible for Niki’s death, would it be over? Could she and Micah stop tracking down scumbags night after night? Micah watched her expectantly. “These weren’t the guys,” she said at last.
Micah nodded, satisfied, and Monica frowned. He had already known. He just wanted to hear the truth from her, hear her acknowledge that justice was not yet done. She wondered what would have happened if she’d lied.
“We’ll get them,” Micah said grimly. “Heroes always win.” He started down the stairs.
Is that what heroes did? Monica shook her head. Every day since Niki’s death, Monica’s definition of the word “hero” had slid a little further away from what she’d once imagined.
“You bitch.” The injured man had gotten to his feet, clutching his side with one hand, a knife shining in his other hand. “Give me back my money.”
Monica looked at him, disgusted. He wasn’t one of the ones who’d kidnapped her and killed Niki. He probably wasn’t any kind of big-time criminal. He was the same as the others she and Micah had been dealing with: minor hustlers and thieves and users. The city seemed to have an endless supply of them.
When Monica shot him, it felt as easy and natural as turning a cartwheel. She’d seen men put a bullet, one bullet, right into the forehead, and that’s what she did, perfectly.
She dropped the gun next to the body. Micah came pounding up the stairs, but Monica blocked his way at the top. He looked past her to where the body lay heaped on the floor, then back at her questioningly.
“Let’s go,” she said. “We’ve got work to do.”