- Author: Sensue (Website: www(dot)sensue(dot)net/)
- Author's NOTE: Please read first, the summary and other notes are at the end of the first chapter. (Bottom of the page.) The reason why I did this was so that you'd read the first chapter before reading anything else that I have to say. Crossover Fiction
- Disclaimer: I don't own them. Any of them. So wish I did.
- Rating: TV-14 - Thoughts (Italic)

Broken Vision By: Sensue

Chapter One

Pain, blinding excruciating pain. Pain accompanied by flashes of an abandoned building, a child screaming and crying, harsh lights, and the smell of alcohol, piss and cigarettes.

Once the flashes end, I feel strong arms holding me, the same arms that stopped my sudden dissent towards the ground. He asks me over and over if I'm alright, if I need a pain killer.

He doesn't even wait for me to answer, just asking the black man kneeling at my other side to get the bottle of pills that they keep for me in one of the cabinets in the office.

I hear the clatter of the pill bottle as my friend runs back to my side, pills in hand along with a glass of water.

He hasn't left me yet and I know that he won't. He won't let go of me until I tell him to. Until I lie to him and tell him that I'm okay. And he'll believe me because I've gotten so good at hiding the pain that even with his abilities, he doesn't know that with every vision a piece of me dies.

Taking in a gasping breath, holding it for a minute until I gain control of my racing heartbeat. Opening my eyes, my best friend's face pressed close to mine, eyes filled with worry.

I plaster on a smile, one that takes away some of their concerns.

"What did you see?" The question. It's always the question on their minds. 'What did you see? What horrible crime against humanity? When? Where?' Those questions have become common place to me. As do the visions of the atrocities in the world. I've tried so hard to become immune, to harden myself at those flashes of anger, hurt, betrayal, and above all the loss of innocence. It's harder than one can believe to keep all that emotion bottled up inside of me.

I answer them, all the while gently pulling back from the body holding me. He lets me go, patting my hand, understanding that I needed space, especially with all of our friends watching intently and taking notes.

"I don't know," swallowing I tried to stop my voice from squeaking. "I saw a building- it was run down, um, dirty. There was a little boy there. He, he, was crying, screaming. Someone was there—I didn't see what they looked like. But I know I smelled a bar. You know: cigarettes and alcohol. It seemed familiar, like I've been there before."

Rubbing my hands through my long hair, I stare at the ground, knowing my friends are watching me, trying not to pressure me by asking me any more questions. I know that he's probably glaring at them the second their mouths attempt to open. He put a hand on my shoulder, kneading slightly in encouragement. My eyes fly open, "I got it! It's the McGregor's Bar on Harvard Rd. near the university."

"Great job!" They shout as they run out the door, picking up their weapons before leaving. He lingers for a moment; I brush him off, telling him to go. He won't, until I tell him. Smiling gently at me for a second, he nods then runs out catching up with the others to save the day.

I wait until they are so far away that even he won't hear my sobs. I cry, I cry so hard that I think the whole building will shake. My throat hurts now as I finally crawl over to my desk to pull out the prescription pain killers that I've hidden under all the papers; pain killers no one, including him know about. I pour a few into my hand, not bothering to count them as they slide down my sore throat. I pull myself into the chair, with a gasping breath; I hold my head trying to force my brain to stop slamming against the bone skull enclosing it. The world around me is blurry, so I close my eyes.

What feels like an eternity later, the pain lessens and I know then that my friends, my team, has defeated the evil in my vision. I was happy and relieved, for no child deserved the kind of pain that I had witnessed.

My eyes seem to be better now, not blurring the world anymore as they had been before. I turn on the computer, making sure no one was around me, as I continue my mad search on the medical internet site in front of me. I felt a burst of hope, when I found an article that discussed similar 'symptoms' like mine. I frown, not liking what I was reading, 'psychosis', 'hallucinations', and 'mental breakdowns' flooded the pages of the article. The young woman had apparently suffered a 'massive psychotic break' that was caused by an unknown neuro-electrical degenerative disorder. A tear escaped despite my attempt at stoicism. Surfing back up the page, I found that the article was written in a community medical center located in Los Angeles. Apparently, the young woman spontaneously recovered from her affliction with no ill effects, and is still monitored. I lower my head down to the desk, again crying at the senselessness of it all. Why? Why, me?

There are footsteps behind me; I don't even lift my head from the desk. His warm hands grip my shoulders as he leans in to see what has made me upset as he whispers in my ear that they got there in time and that it was going to be okay.

"What's got you so upset?" He asks this gently.

I lift my head up from my hands; this time, I'm not going to bother to hide the pain. It doesn't matter; I know what has to be done now. My friends come up behind me, supporting me. I swallow, then take a deep breath, "Guys, I have to go—."

My best friend jumps up, "What! What do you mean?" I smile, understanding that he is yelling because he is afraid. He is always afraid that I will leave him, as the other in his existence have.

"I need to check this out." I turn the screen so they can read it. "I need to see if this is true." They stare in silent horror reading what the doctors wrote so coldly; what they know that I suffer from frequently.

"Shit!" It flew out of their mouths.

That world encompassed my entire life. What, if the article is true, will be the end of it.

"Does it have any other information? A name? Something? Anything--," one of them asks me.

"No. It doesn't." I have to trust that someone there will be able to help me. Someone who knew this unnamed woman. I have to hope. It's all I have left in me. For from the moment Incacha grabbed my arm as he lay dying in our apartment, I was cursed. Cursed with his 'gift' to me. What Jim Ellison has explained to me, means 'the way of the shaman.' To me, it means death, destruction, and the loss of innocence.

Mainly, my own. For the life of Blair Jacob Sandburg was surely not meant to be like this. I read the line again, my vision once again blurring the screen in front of me, this time from tears that could not be shed. "Spontaneously recovering from her affliction with no ill effects, the patient left the hospital the next day against medical advice."

Jim Ellison kneeled down in front of my chair, "Don't worry, chief. If she's still alive, we'll find her. And maybe, she'll have the answers that we've both been searching for."

I nod, hoping with all my heart that our wishes, for once, will be granted.

To Be Continued...

Please read and respond. You didn't expect that huh? You were expecting Cordy?

- Author: Sensue (Website: www(dot)sensue(dot)net/)
- Summary: When Incacha passed the way of the shaman to Blair Sandburg, he passed along his visions from the powers that be. Suffering from 'blind blowing' visions of people in trouble, Blair has searched far and wide for the one person in history who seemed to be 'cured' from them. A young woman living in Los Angeles. Obviously, Cordelia Chase

- Warning: Visions of death, loss of innocence (rape), etc. mentioned but not described in detail.

- Disclaimer: I don't own them…The Sentinel and Angel: the series are owned by their respective companies. I am not making any profit from writing this story.
- Rating: TV-14 - Thoughts (Italic)