Ficlet
OOC At long last, here's the ficlet I promised Sabby surrounding the night of her death.
"I'm sorry."
Travis stands in the doorway to the room a long moment, staring past the growing flames at the lonely body in the middle of the room. The flickering light, the gentle warmth. The only thing stopping it from being a pleasant dream is the repeating sound of the gun exploding in his ears. Explosion and echo. Explosion and echo. And the bleeding body on the floor and the bleeding body in his arms.
That's what brings him back to the present, and he stumbles out into the hallway and to the top of the stairwell, shouting for the pawn hovering at its bottom. "You, get up here. No, wait, get the desk guard. Call an ambulance. /The/ ambulance. No Sirens! Then get the hell up here." There's not even two seconds hesitation when Travis barks an angry, "NOW!" which gets the desired response.
Travis stares at the unconscious Emma in his arms. Every second is one second too long, though his attention is split between the heated room behind him. Every second is one second closer to the fire alarms going off, rushing him much faster than he should be. If that idiot pawn doesn't do something stupid like pull the alarm himself.
He's back moments later, though not soon enough to skip Travis' scathing words. Brief words, though, as they manage to get her down the stairs, all the while Travis giving instructions to place gentle pressure on the wound. There's enough blood that it might even distract the pawn from the fact that he has his hands on Emma.
"Don't let the ambulance crew upstairs," Travis instructs the now two pawns at the bottom, leaving them at Emma's side. "Use Emma's name, Shaw's name, threat of pain and death, whatever. The moment they leave, pull the fire alarm. And just pray it's not going off before then. Do whatever you can to keep people away. Oh, and someone should probably find Shaw and let him know what's up. Need him to keep things quiet."
With that, he's off, waving away further questions, racing back up the stairs. He shoves the restroom door open, a flash of thankfulness at the presence of real towels as he turns the sink on full force, soaking the towel before dashing down the hall to the remains of Emma's office.
The towel is wrapped around his face, and he pushes into the room, doing his best to ignore the heat. First things. Guns, the first is returned to Emma's desk, which doesn't look that healthy of a place for much longer anyways.
Then…
He steps to the center of the room, standing over Sabitha's body. He carefully pulls the helmet off her head, setting it aside for the moment as he kneels beside her. The fallen gun is placed inside the helmet. Let Shaw deal with its misplaced bullet once it is retrieved from their Queen. Emma's bullet, however. Travis' bullet. The bullet for Sabitha.
His face hardens, the sheet of sweat on his forehead as much from determination as the burning room. The broken chair is nearby, and he snaps off one of the spindles from its back. Its end is shoved into Sab-- the body's stomach at the entry wound, widening the hold as he forces himself not to look away. Then his hand follows. It takes several moments of fishing to retrieve the bullet, which is shoved deep into his pocket.
It's only a matter of seconds before he's back on his feet, tearing the towel off his face and wiping as much blood from his hands as possible. The towel and chair spindle are flung into the biggest of the flames, the gun and helmet snatched up and tucked under his arm.
And only then does he allow himself to look briefly at Sabitha's face, her now glassy eyes. "You always called me on it...," he says, voice hoarse against the smoke. "The only one who ever did. The only one who tried to pull back /my/ mask. Except it's been too long. It doesn't come off anymore. I /tried/. Hell, for you I really tried. So thanks for trying, Sabby. Thanks.
He strides across the room, pausing once again in the doorway. "Oh, and my real name's Caleb," he says, voice barely a whisper against the raging flames. "I thought you should know."
***
There's a set of eyes that watch the loading of the ambulance carefully from hiding. Watch until the sounds of sirens fill the air, and then he's gone. There's work to be done still, before the day's done. Always work to be done, evidence to hide, evidence to create, rumors to spread and tongues to silence.
An e-mail to the circle. Time, the fourth dimension. White Knight still.
No rest for the wicked.
"I'm sorry."
Travis stands in the doorway to the room a long moment, staring past the growing flames at the lonely body in the middle of the room. The flickering light, the gentle warmth. The only thing stopping it from being a pleasant dream is the repeating sound of the gun exploding in his ears. Explosion and echo. Explosion and echo. And the bleeding body on the floor and the bleeding body in his arms.
That's what brings him back to the present, and he stumbles out into the hallway and to the top of the stairwell, shouting for the pawn hovering at its bottom. "You, get up here. No, wait, get the desk guard. Call an ambulance. /The/ ambulance. No Sirens! Then get the hell up here." There's not even two seconds hesitation when Travis barks an angry, "NOW!" which gets the desired response.
Travis stares at the unconscious Emma in his arms. Every second is one second too long, though his attention is split between the heated room behind him. Every second is one second closer to the fire alarms going off, rushing him much faster than he should be. If that idiot pawn doesn't do something stupid like pull the alarm himself.
He's back moments later, though not soon enough to skip Travis' scathing words. Brief words, though, as they manage to get her down the stairs, all the while Travis giving instructions to place gentle pressure on the wound. There's enough blood that it might even distract the pawn from the fact that he has his hands on Emma.
"Don't let the ambulance crew upstairs," Travis instructs the now two pawns at the bottom, leaving them at Emma's side. "Use Emma's name, Shaw's name, threat of pain and death, whatever. The moment they leave, pull the fire alarm. And just pray it's not going off before then. Do whatever you can to keep people away. Oh, and someone should probably find Shaw and let him know what's up. Need him to keep things quiet."
With that, he's off, waving away further questions, racing back up the stairs. He shoves the restroom door open, a flash of thankfulness at the presence of real towels as he turns the sink on full force, soaking the towel before dashing down the hall to the remains of Emma's office.
The towel is wrapped around his face, and he pushes into the room, doing his best to ignore the heat. First things. Guns, the first is returned to Emma's desk, which doesn't look that healthy of a place for much longer anyways.
Then…
He steps to the center of the room, standing over Sabitha's body. He carefully pulls the helmet off her head, setting it aside for the moment as he kneels beside her. The fallen gun is placed inside the helmet. Let Shaw deal with its misplaced bullet once it is retrieved from their Queen. Emma's bullet, however. Travis' bullet. The bullet for Sabitha.
His face hardens, the sheet of sweat on his forehead as much from determination as the burning room. The broken chair is nearby, and he snaps off one of the spindles from its back. Its end is shoved into Sab-- the body's stomach at the entry wound, widening the hold as he forces himself not to look away. Then his hand follows. It takes several moments of fishing to retrieve the bullet, which is shoved deep into his pocket.
It's only a matter of seconds before he's back on his feet, tearing the towel off his face and wiping as much blood from his hands as possible. The towel and chair spindle are flung into the biggest of the flames, the gun and helmet snatched up and tucked under his arm.
And only then does he allow himself to look briefly at Sabitha's face, her now glassy eyes. "You always called me on it...," he says, voice hoarse against the smoke. "The only one who ever did. The only one who tried to pull back /my/ mask. Except it's been too long. It doesn't come off anymore. I /tried/. Hell, for you I really tried. So thanks for trying, Sabby. Thanks.
He strides across the room, pausing once again in the doorway. "Oh, and my real name's Caleb," he says, voice barely a whisper against the raging flames. "I thought you should know."
***
There's a set of eyes that watch the loading of the ambulance carefully from hiding. Watch until the sounds of sirens fill the air, and then he's gone. There's work to be done still, before the day's done. Always work to be done, evidence to hide, evidence to create, rumors to spread and tongues to silence.
An e-mail to the circle. Time, the fourth dimension. White Knight still.
No rest for the wicked.