I do not own Hawaii Five-0 or any characters. No copyright infringement intended.
Notes: felt a bit of an urge to bring back Prysm from 'Perceptions'. Thanks to KQ and Swifters for pushing this along!
H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O
He sat there hunched over, subtle tremors wracking his thin frame, and completely confused. The seat of his favorite black pants had long ago soaked up the now cold dregs of coffee which puddled under him on the tiled floor. He'd lost his private journal somewhere in the mayhem. His cell phone lay broken off to the side; the screen spidered and the innards ruined by its fall onto the same wet floor. He sat there stunned and absolutely baffled by how he'd wound up in the local coffee shop sitting on the amber-stained tile with a gun in his hand and the blonde head of a cop in his lap. Staring up in horror at the muzzle of another weapon which seemed unerringly aimed at his forehead.
"Put the gun down!" The portly rent-a-cop bellowed over the din of so much other noise. Around their incredible stand-off, people gasped or even screamed. An occasional crash sounded and feet scuffled as patrons made for any exit they could find. As the door opened to the sidewalk, not so distant sirens could finally be heard and Prysm could have laughed in relief had he the nerve left in his body. However, with scarcely six feet to spare, neither gun moved an inch from its opposite target.
"Down! Goddamnit ... put the gun down ... and slide the bag over! Do it, kid! Do it ... now!"
Instead of obeying, Prysm jerked his head to the negative, clammy fingers scrambling to hold the unfamiliar gun just the right way while his free hand pushed hard into the gaping wound in the real officer's shoulder to stop the flow of blood. He didn't know where his defiance was coming from as a low moan reached his ears. The blonde cop was rousing, but just barely and Prysm forced himself to stay his resolve by grasping the cop's gun even more tightly in his fist.
"No," he ground out when the blonde head stirred weakly in his lap. Finger tips flexed in a rivulets of cream-colored coffee and then stilled. The sports bag full of drugs and money sat directly to Prysm's right; virtually under his right elbow. It was all too much to cope with but Prysm shook his head again as his adversary loudly cursed him. "No. Back off ... just stay away from me."
He did his best to keep his calm when the fake guard shouted at him, but he was struggling. He seriously wanted to give up. Just do what he was told and walk away. He was way out of his league and beyond his means. Mentally, physically and on the edge of emotional turmoil, Prysm was only seventeen years old and well on his way to a near panic. The stress he was under was unfamiliar territory and he didn't much like it. He fought fear with his waning sense of courage all the while staring down the rent-a-cop who was anything but an official representative of the law. He was sure of that; he'd seen the drugs change hands. He'd swear to anyone who'd ever believe him that he'd seen significant money change hands just before all hell had broken loose inside the coffee shop. He'd vow at that very moment that he was only being spared his life because he had a tenuous control on one very important sports bag. Plus, and though their numbers were fast dwindling, there were still far too many witnesses milling about. One such person in particular who remained much too close for the guard's dubious hold on comfort.
In the corner, wedged between the cafe's big street-side window and an overturned chair, a well-dresssed business woman sat on the floor with her knees drawn up to her chest. Eyes like saucers, she stared dumbly at the rent-a-cop much the same as Prysm. Though she was unable to speak at that very moment, her mind was working in overdrive and she would eventually become a stalwart witness to Prysm's cause. But now, just then, neither he nor she were capable of moving.
"I don't have time for this!" The guard growled angrily as the sirens drew closer to the cafe. He wiped his face from perspiration, his anger increasing in spades. He couldn't fathom how some spikey-haired teenager, dressed like a fucking vampire, continued to foil his plans. Because of where he stood now, he was incredibly uncertain as to his next move. The kid was close ... so close ... but he didn't dare take action without a valid alibi. In a fury, he glared at the business woman as if his inability to get his way was her fault. He was disgusted by her eyes which met his so very clearly. She was petrified but not so unaware that she'd hold no value if questioned. If he killed the vampire-like teen outright, he'd have to kill her, too.
She'd seen him shoot the plainclothes blonde cop at point blank range. She'd witnessed him kill the one gang member lying inert off to her right, a bloody sneaker a mere hands-breadth from her briefcase. Once he started, he'd simply have to keep taking out witness after witness with no end in sight. Starting with the already deceased gang member, he'd have to take out the obnoxiously dressed vampire-teen, followed by the business woman ... then he'd have no recourse to finish off the already badly wounded cop; a dire move that would need to be undertaken in cold blood.
But he wanted the damned bag which held tens of thousands of dollars worth of drugs and nearly fifty-thousand dollars in cash money. With his prize a few feet away, bargaining with the weird kid was his only chance before the real police arrived. If he failed in the next few minutes, he'd have no choice but to initiate his killing spree.
Jaw clenched, the guard shifted his feet to rock a step closer to the boy. His eyes dropped to the wounded cop as he moved, confused as to why the weird teen even cared about the man. "Listen," he said, stopping abruptly when the opposing gun flew directly in line with his face. "Just ... hold up and listen to me!"
"No way! Back off!" Prysm hissed through his teeth, tension vibrating though his body as the threat escalated. He raised the gun higher in kind, amazed with himself for even thinking he might be able to pull the trigger. "Back the fuck off! I mean it!"
"Listen ... I don't want you ... I want the bag," the guard snarled. "Just ... keep the damned gun then and give me the bag. You can do that much, can't you?"
Partially frozen in fear, Prysm couldn't feel the fingers of his left hand which held a thickly wadded pile of napkins against the hole in the blonde officer's shoulder. He did feel the cop's heavy gun in his palm though, and the big black canvas sports bag he'd inadvertently wound up also protecting on the floor.
The two warring gang members had entered the cafe at just the wrong time. Or, maybe it was the precisely right time because it was when Mr. Fake Fat Rent-a-Cop was demanding his dues from the shop's equally villainous owner. It seemed that everyone suddenly wanted a piece of what was evidently a lucrative pie. But the altercation had escalated with a startling speed. Guns had been drawn, threats made and customers had bolted for cover as the first of too many bullets flew through the air.
Prysm had just paid for his large black coffee, extra sugar no milk. His friend had been placing his order for his own extra sweet beverage. Well behind them both in the queue had been the blonde cop, someone he'd met once but had remembered well enough. He remembered the name - Danny - and knew with one quick glance that the cop had known him as well. They hadn't spoken though; each had been determined to remain content in their own divergent world. But then it had happened and Prysm's coffee cup had literally dropped out of his hands at the first shout of alarm, coupled with the initial flurry of gunfire.
The liquid amber mess from his paper cup had joined all the others to stain the counter, the floor and create splatters of too many brown lakes. He'd slipped, fallen and found himself crawling over to Danny on his hands and knees. A reaction he couldn't quite explain. He'd pulled Danny off to the side when the rent-a-cop went toe to toe with the gang member. He'd automatically grabbed the gun from Danny's fingers as the cop lost consciousness. He'd been unaware of what he'd done until he found himself sitting up against the counter, Danny's head in his lap and a police-issued gun in his hand.
So now, fifteen minutes later, Prysm was still sitting in a coffee-scented pool of liquid and not at all oblivious to what was soaking steadily though his favorite pants as he'd have liked. And his friend? Well, he'd lived up to his apropos nickname of Skittish. He was long gone if not one of the gawkers pacing the outside for an exciting look in at the chaos. For once, Prysm appreciated his friend's very nervous tendencies, because with Danny unconscious, he was entirely alone.
"Put. The. Gun. Down! I want that bag!' The rent-a-cop tried to move closer again, but Prysm gritted his teeth, the nausea churning crazily inside his stomach.
The guy was all wrong. Rent-a-cops didn't carry firearms and this one was holding an impressive looking handgun. Something nearly as impressive as the one he now held in his own hand which he'd uncomprehendingly scooped up. And if Danny hadn't been able to control the frightening situation, what in hell did Prysm think he was doing? He'd worked himself into a corner and was now irretrievably stuck with his knee-jerk decision beyond any type of reasonable measure.
He had no answers either because asking a question was as fruitless as trying to explain his current predicament. The ugly splash of glistening red gore owned by the dead body was just inside his periphery. He'd never seen a dead person before, let alone one killed before his very eyes. For all his usual confidence and self presence, Prysm was having quite the time rationalizing what he'd borne witness to that very sunny afternoon. Much like the business woman who continued to simply stare from him to the face of their attacker.
"Shit," he moaned softly under his breath. Tied in knots and a loss of what to do, he felt sick to his stomach. What the hell had gone so terribly wrong that day that he'd managed to cross such paths with a maniac and two warring gangs?
"Gimme the bag, kid," the man demanded. His impatience grew as he adjusted his ample weight from foot to foot. "I swear to God, you have five seconds!"
"No," Prysm interrupted nervously as he caught new movement from just inside the doorway to the shoppe. A few stragglers still stumbled over their own feet to escape, yet this particular shadow was coming in.
He didn't dare look though. His mouth went dry as he stared back into the pitch black eyes of pure hatred. He didn't dare look away or move single muscle. He knew that he'd be dead the minute his gun wavered or he showed more doubt than he currently was projecting. He'd seen too much and now he'd immersed himself far too deeply in this particular hot mess. The blonde cop too in fact, because after all was said and done, the cop he held partly in his lap was indeed a real cop. Without a doubt, Prysm knew their fate if he looked away, dropped his aim, or even slid the bag over as demanded.
Prysm felt the sweat trickling down the back of his black t-shirt as the tendons in his shoulders began to shake. Ever so slowly he rested his right elbow on the bag of contraband. The heavy fall of black hair which he'd purposefully styled over his heavily mascara'ed left eye interfered with his vision, sweat made matters worse as it leaked down the side of his face to create an obnoxious burning itch. Still, Prysm couldn't move. Behind the fake cop, the shadow lurked cautiously closer and he registered the change in the guard's breathing as he too felt the presence.
"What's going on in here?" This new voice was deep, calm and commanding without being confrontational. There was a distinct note of stress not so hidden in the timbre though and Prysm allowed his eyes to flicker briefly to its owner.
"I got this. No need for heroics, bud," the fat man warned the new arrival without turning around or giving the man the courtesy of acknowledgment. "Get out of here. I don't need the help ... so if you'd kindly leave us ... things are under control."
"I highly doubt that. Bud." The new man rudely intoned. "There's nothing even remotely under control here. FUBAR is more like it."
Prysm braved another quick study, gauging the worn slippahs, casual kahki cargo shorts and dark blue t-shirt. Tall, mostly nondescript meaning Hawaiian-borne and bred, yet carrying an air of authority, the man had no intention of leaving despite his lack of weaponry. Then there was a flash of gold and the most unlikely of introductions.
"Commander Steve McGarrett. Five-0. That man right there is my partner. So now why don't you tell me - Bud - just what the hell's going on here?"
A long pause followed, one where the rent-a-cop's face completely closed off. Red splotches appeared on his neck as sweat began to trickle down his ruddy cheeks. Yet, from Prysm's vantage, the dark eyes glittered with a dangerous glean despite the beads of moisture which dappled his skin.
"He intended to rob the coffee shoppe with his little friend. When the off-duty cop tried to intervene, they grappled over the gun and he shot him, too," the fake cop explained, pointing once towards the dead gang member as Prysm's new found little friend and gesturing once towards the unconscious Danny. His eyes now seared holes through Prysm's own, daring him to object, angry and entirely loathing.
"He shot that HPD cop in cold blood and now ... now he's threatening to kill him unless I back off and get him a free pass out of here. That bag there ... the one under his arm ... its going to hold all the evidence you need."
"What! No way!" Prsym's eyes bulged large in disbelief before he blurted the only thing he could think of. "He's ... lying! He... he shot both of them and he's only still here because he wants the bag for himself!"
"You can't be serious?" The fat man chuffed incredulously just for Steve's sake as he glared at the 5-0 badge before snarling back at Prysm. "You'll try anything to get out of here, won't you?"
Steve studied the Goth teen who sat on the floor with his back against the counter with his partner's hefty P-30 awkwardly held in one hand. It was clear that the safety was off and Steve's lips thinned as he realized the boy's free hand was intentionally pressed into the wound on his friend's shoulder. Something had certainly gone wrong, but Danny wasn't going to be able to provide any immediate answers.
The teen's legs were splayed wide, Danny's head rocked gently on his left thigh while the blood-stained fingers of the his left hand fisted a wad of material - likely napkins - into a steadily bleeding shoulder wound. He was dressed entirely in black, the pure white of his visible skin incredibly porcelain for being in the tropics. A silver piercing glimmered on his bottom lip, the ever-shifting sparkle evidence of the boy's nervous state.
In fact, the kid was downright scared, yet oddly determined to hold his ground. The juxtaposition of black and white with the redness of blood was vivid. Stark really and as disparate as a supposedly unpredictable gunman cradling the head of a victim so very gently.
"What the hell?" Steve breathed out under his breath. Contrary to the flurry of citizens' reports made to 911, he suddenly doubted the 911 calls identifying a black-clad, Goth-like teen as a gun-weidling killer. Steve glanced towards the business woman, acknowledging her existence, palm held flat in her direction to signal he'd manage things. But their eyes met and she looked ... really looked at the security guard and Steve hesitated at the oddness of her expression.
"I didn't do it, man," the teen softly pleaded, drawing Steve's attention quickly back. "If you're for real ... if you're a for real cop .. you've got to listen. He did it and he's just trying to get out of here and pin this on me because he knows that he's out of luck now that you've showed up!"
He lobbed his plea towards Steve, yet the gun never budged an inch from where it was aimed up at the security guard's face. Their eyes met and Steve plainly read the fear inside. He saw the doubt and then the rise in hope that he'd be believed simply for the sincerity of his words and not for the way he looked. Steve pursed his lips worriedly, fighting his need to rip the gun from the kid's fingers to get to Danny. He could shoot the teen, too. Simply be done with it since his own gun was wedged carefully in the rear band of his shorts. Just out of sight under his loose fitting t-shirt, he'd be able to turn the tide within a split second. But he felt that something was badly off with the situation. There was a niggling concern on the rise that this wasn't at all what it seemed to be and as he edged even closer, what he felt wrong was coming in waves from the security guard.
"He's out of his mind! Just look at him ... he's nothing but a drugged out loser!" In his left ear, Steve heard the disgusted snarl from the guard and he took the time to look at the man to see the matching sneer. He cocked his jaw unconsciously as he quickly considered the ease of which the man held his weapon; a Beretta 92 with an extended magazine and Steve did a double-take. The gun was wholly out of place for any number of very valid reasons.
What the fuck? Steve thought to himself as he catalogued that extreme oddity of the conflicting clues.
He scowled as he catalogued clue upon clue and read the varying degrees of body language. There was little doubt that the kid was immersed in Gothic culture. Dressed entirely in black, even his raven hair gleamed so thickly black it was almost blue. Steve blinked as the light changed and he saw that the hair did hold a strong midnight blue hue. One heavy lock was dyed a deep, deep blue, then looped gently over towards his ear. Intentional then and actually pretty despite the circumstances. He saw the destroyed cell phone, presumably the teen's, lying broken on the ground. A few feet away, a matted and dog-eared small notebook lay spine open, its pages equally destroyed by liquid and the pounding of running feet. The strong smell of coffee combined with the fear, death and an eerie sense of an ugly anticipation.
He heard then Danny's low moan of discomfort as the teen's fingers gently found new purchase to stem the stubborn trickle of blood and Steve's eyes narrowed. The action was caring. Empathetic. A certain memory came to mind from months earlier. A conversation he'd had with Danny about his run-in with a tall Goth teen over his unreliable loaner.
I wonder. Steve frowned at the musty memory, wracking his brain to remember the details from something so minutely obscure. A weird name. A strange interlude over ... his crap loaner car when the Camaro was being worked on. Slowly but surely, something interesting was snicking into place inside Steve's head as his eyes flickered back to the notebook.
"How's he holding up?" Steve asked when another soft sound of distress escaped Danny's lips. His pulse quickened as he focused on Danny, his state appearing to be dire based on the volume of blood ruining his shirt. He looked at his partner, the hands lax and unmoving except for a subtle twitch every now and again. Behind closed lashes, his eyes rolled slightly and his lips quivered in pain; as if he might wake and say something, but Steve knew better as he took in every minute detail.
"He needs help," Prysm admitted. "He needs an ambulance ... I can't get the bleeding to stop. I think the bullet went all the way through, but I can't tell."
The unspoken entreaty for help proved how deeply troubled the teen was and it communicated his ongoing uncertainty as he looked nervously from Steve back to the rent-a-cop.
Steve's brow furrowed more deeply as another hint clicked into place. Goth teenage boy, the broken down loaner on a miserably hot Saturday. Intelligent. Older than his years ... and a small journal of sorts. His eyes accidentally found the scuffed bound sheaf of papers on the floor near the counter and Steve wondered. Had Danny mentioned reading a few lines of poetry? Suddenly, he had the strangest of ideas.
"Have you folks introduced yourselves yet?" Steve asked. "Names?" He looked at the frightened woman, gaining a negative quick jerk of her head.
"What?" The older man leered. "What the hell kind of question is that? Are you Five-0 or aren't you? We need to put an end to this ridiculous ... stand off. If you aren't going to do something, I'll shoot him and be done with it!"
"You'll do no such thing," Steve barked back. "And as for questions ... this is a good enough one to start with." His fingers were suddenly itchy to attack now that the guard had annoyed him ... he certainly had an urge to do something in order to get to his badly injured partner as another groan emanated up from the floor. Besides the woman's subtle hint, he only hoped that the boy would remember just enough to validate his decision. Because above all things, Steve knew his partner. He knew that Danny would have tried to engage in some sort of conversation.
"Do you know his name?" Steve asked the teen now. He pointed to the fake guard first, the perplexed look proving the obvious answer. But then he gestured towards Danny, his concern blatant and he watched the teen nod, before he swallowed hard and pushed the right answer out.
"Danny," Prysm said, the understanding now slightly clearing the panic in his dark eyes. "This is Danny and I tried to help him with some piece of crap car a few months ago."
"Well done," Steve purred as the fingers of his right hand strayed towards the rear of his waist-band. "We have a winner." His lip rolled up into a one-sided grin of approval and Prysm felt himself inexplicably relax. Danny and this new cop certainly did know each other and even if he, Prysm, had been discussed, there was nothing bad about that. However, he didn't have time to do or say anything else as the Five-0 commander moved on his decision.
"Hand over your weapon," Steve suddenly demanded of the astonished rent-a-cop. "Now."
With one pivot of a heel, he swung around to place himself squarely between the fat man, the anxious teen and his partner. Off to the side, the business woman let out with a squeak of terror while behind him, Steve heard a softly whispered curse. But in front of him, the supposed guard's anger flared and that was the only remaining excuse which Steve required.
Prysm instantly dropped his hand to point his gun away from the t-shirt clad back as soon as the Five-0 Commander blocked his view. He gasped, stunned as the Five-0 officer diverted attention from him and his unlikely charge. Then there was a series of short rapid movements; so fast that Prysm's brain simply didn't register a single thing except that the rent-a-cop was no longer on his feet. There was a dull thud and then ... it was over.
"What?" He was panting hard by the time his cold hand was enveloped in the Commander's larger, warm one.
"Let go," Steve patiently urged. "It's over and you can let the gun go now." It took a moment longer for the boy to remember how to manage his fingers and then, Steve still had to help him. With an effort, Prysm released his clenched fist one finger at a time, allowing Danny's gun to be taken from him.
"Okay?" Prysm asked as he looked up, all the stress he'd been under flooding to the surface as a surge of adrenalin made him dizzy. His head wobbled on his neck and he coughed uncomfortably. The Commander was on his knees next to his side, one hand on Danny's cheek. The other resting on Prysm's own shoulder to offer him support and what almost looked like ... thanks.
"Yeah, we're good." Warm fingers gently squeezed Prysm's shoulder and the Commander gave him a half-smile along with a little shake to break him out of his daze. "Hello, Prysm. I'm Steve ... Danny told me a lot about you ... once. About the car."
"Oh. Okay," Prysm choked out stupidly as a sea of HPD blue descended in the small space. He ogled the officers and fretted again about what they might think until Steve shook his head, his own hand replacing Prysm's on Danny's blood-soaked shoulder. A moment later, Danny's head was gone from where it had rested against his thigh and Prysm felt lighter, yet also colder. He stared stupidly over as Steve took Danny's weight away, propping him against his own body while firmly staunching the flow of blood from the exit wound.
"Umm?" He murmured, his brow furrowing as he got a good look at Danny's pale face. Stammering and uncertain about what would happen next, Prysm's tongue refused to work. "But ... he?"
"Yeah. I got him now. I'll take care of him ... he's going to be all right," Steve soothed as Prysm woodenly sat in his cold sea of coffee. "You will be too."
Their eyes connected one last time and Prysm almost wound up reading the man's lips for the buzzing in his ears. There was something about medics and ambulances, but his head was swimming by that point and he only got bits and pieces of an odd word or two.
"Amb ...take Dan... check you ... too. Think ... shocky. 'kay?"
"Okay," Prysm mumbled over again. His tongue was thick inside his mouth and his brain seemed to have switched off. All he wanted to do was find a warm place to curl up and hide for the foreseeable future, if not for the rest of his life. However, at Steve's bidding, two HPD officers gently hauled him to his feet, his body oddly unwilling to behave and Prysm blinked wildly as they escaped into the bright late afternoon sun.
~ to be continued ~