Disclaimer: It's been a year; Witchblade still does
not belong to me.
Author's Note: I like Sara's apartment
from the movie/pilot, so keep that in mind. There may be a leap of
imagination with fitting the blackout of August 2003 into the
Witchblade storyline, but try it and let me know the feasibility.
Finally, for the usual crew (WH, MK, FK, etc.).
Summary: He
knew the power outage affecting the city was a show of the true power
of the Witchblade.
Rating: PG/K/FRT for one dirty
word.
Archive(s): Mine; anybody else, email me.
Pairing(s):
Ian/Sara
Spoiler(s): All episodes are a fair bet,
especially the Pilot/movie.
xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx
Title: Power Outage
Author: Adrianna AEternalis
(1/2)
Sara was into hour ten of an eight hour shift when the blackout hit. Her first hint of it was the slow, whiny deaths of the precinct's many air conditioners. The silence, especially in New York City, was uncanny; it froze all the detectives and police officers in their positions. Then, almost as one body with a thousand heads, they began to move.
Walkie-talkies were passed out along with water bottles. Guns were double-checked as everybody took assignments from Dante, who could be heard above the din of muted conversations.
"Keep your guns ready, your eyes everywhere, and your badge visible. We don't want to mistaken who you are if the situation gets messy out there."
It was the first bit of sound advice that Sara heard from his mouth since he replaced Joe. It also served to remind her that there was the very real possibility that the outage was not a drill. They played the scenario by the book because there was no way to know if and when the power would return. Everybody knew it so they put on their poker faces and went out onto the streets.
She and other law enforcement members worked non-stop to make their presence known. There would be neither riots nor looting if they could prevent it. So, they roamed the streets in seemingly random patterns, occasionally falling into step with another officer. They walked together for a few blocks and then returned to their original assignment or switched areas.
Throughout, they kept in contact with base via cell-phones and walkie-talkies used sparingly. Word of mouth was the venue of choice to spread information.
They shared what they knew with the citizens they passed as they patrolled. With no radios, no telephones, no televisions, and no computers, the sight of an officer with news was a welcome relief from the uncertainty. Information was what made the heat bearable.
It also kept panic at bay.
She was picked up by a wagon sometime after seven for a break to eat a fast dinner of a sandwich. They gave her a recharged walkie-talkie to replace hers; base would have a generator where they would take the used equipment to be juiced again.
As Sara surveyed the city from the comfortable vantage point of the wagon, the driver also handed her a bottle of Gatorade.
"Compliments of your local Subway," he announced with a grin.
She twisted off the cap and unwrapped the sandwich. It was soggy with wilted lettuce. The driver stopped her from discarding it.
"Eat it, detective. They made all the sandwiches for free because of the lost power. Nothing will keep in this heat and New York's finest have to eat. Besides, who knows when the city'll take you off-duty."
Continuing to eye the sandwich with disgust, Sara ate it anyway. It was either that or get off. Her aching legs begged her to stay.
They continued to roam the dark streets while Sara ate. The windows were rolled down to conserve gasoline and they listened to the voices in the dark.
There were the excited voices of children who played in safety along deserted streets. Summer was a time for fun but, tonight, their parents joined them. Other adults sat on stoops, leaned out ground-level windows, or wandered around slowly; they all talked or laughed about the blackout. Sara heard words and phrases unusual to the self-centric, hectic lifestyle here: "pleased to meet you", "let me introduce you to", "I've lived here for a year and this is the first time I've had to meet anybody", and so on.
Clinking beer bottles--newly opened and just finished--acted as punctuation for the snatches of conversation that drifted towards Sara and the driver.
"It's been like this everywhere," the driver commented.
"Like one big party?" asked Sara, more to fill the silence than for information.
She, too, had noticed the easy behavior of everybody as they waited for the power to come back. On the other hand, it was really creepy not to hear the squeal of brakes or the hum of air conditioners and neon signs or the sounds of New York City's various nightspots.
"Yep. The city's quiet tonight. Everybody's on their way home; people at home are staying there like the mayor asked. It's like a ghost town out there except people are having a good time the old-fashioned way."
Sara resumed her patrol on foot a few minutes later but not for long. Night had fallen and, with it, daylight had returned block by block. The festive atmosphere fled into the remaining darkness as the power came back and people withdrew from the streets. Air conditioners were turned on; televisions blared the news for those who were anxious to find out exactly what had happened.
By the time Sara faced her apartment door, she was dead on her feet. It had been a couple of years since she had to patrol the beat. She did not miss it at all.
She craved salt but her area was not scheduled to reconnect with the power grid until sometime near dawn so the stores were closed. Though realistically, she hoped the owners had managed to find their way home; she could deal with her electrolyte imbalance other ways.
The key stuck in the lock; she cursed the expansion of metal from heat. Sara was tempted to kick down her own door, but her aching feet protested. Once again, she found herself listening to those tortured extremities and nearly fell into her apartment when she simply leaned against the door in defeat.
Immediately on her guard, Sara remained in the doorway and found her weapon with one hand. The other pushed the door wider to expand her field of vision.
The windows were open; they should have been closed since the air conditioning had been working that morning. Moonlight reflected off an ice cooler sitting by her sofa; where or who was its owner? Even at this distance, she saw the linens on her bed were changed to something whitish; she did not own white sheets. Pale blue, yes, but not hospital white.
A single candle outlined a profile. Sara sighed, closed the door, and rolled her eyes simultaneously. She should have known he would come.
"Ian, what are you doing here?"
The ghost in question rose to his feet. Had he been sleeping? Sara looked at him carefully.
His hair was tied back like usual, but she saw even he was not impervious to August summer heat. He was stripped down to a form fitting tee-shirt and pants; socks and shoes were discarded and were peaking out from under the sofa.
Her sarcastic side flared ridiculously at the sight.
"Who knew my stalker could de-lurk long enough for me to wake him up. Somebody alert the media."
As usual, her words flowed through him without making a dent in his somber eagerness to please her.
She gave in under the pressure of his continued silence. Maybe, she thought offhandedly, she ought to see a therapist about her problem with the lack of sounds.
"Okay, okay. Just tell me what you're doing here, Ian."
He glanced at the ice cooler.
"I heard that the department was keeping its officers until the blackout situation was under control. I bought a few things on your behalf."
"If you've got more Gatorade in there, I'll thank you." Sara smiled to show how much she appreciated the thought.
"No, they were out." He paused but, before she could voice her annoyance, he continued. "But they did have Powerade."
He opened the cooler's top and shifted ice until he found a bottle.
Catching it, Sara had to say, "You ass. You did that on purpose."
His face was all innocence.
The electrolyte-filled drink refreshed her enough to allow her to collapse onto the sofa. Ian joined her there silently when she nudged the cooler with a foot.
"What else is in there?"
"Dinner."
A groan escaped her. The memory of her soggy sandwich was still fresh in her mind.
"Not hungry."
"Heat has a way of slowing down the metabolism."
"Uh-huh." She already was thinking of other things. "I need a shower. I don't suppose they'll be hot water, will there?"
Ian shook his head. Sara let hers fall backwards onto the sofa.
"You want a bright side, Sara?"
Her head snapped upwards to see the teasing glint in his eyes.
"Glad to see you have a sense of humor, Ian."
Then, for a moment, they grinned at each other. Sara felt the Witchblade activate on her wrist by the slight warmth it emanated and tried to grab at the faint memory it wanted her to remember.
Ian's earlier seriousness returned.
"Sara, it may be easier to communicate with the Witchblade if you did not fight it all the time."
"Communicate?" she asked, dubiously.
"The Witchblade does not control you. It's meant to aid you in fulfilling your destiny."
Sara's eyes slowly glazed as the quiet timbre of Ian's voice began to weave a spell, one aided by the Witchblade's connection to its Wielder.
"The visions are its way of helping you. There's nothing that forbids or prevents you from asking it anything. Especially about the connectedness of everything in your life."
"How do you know that?"
"Father, he wore the Witchblade; you already know it rejected him. But before it released him, it cursed him with longevity and the desire for more, for the power it wields."
She discovered she could focus on him so she concentrated there.
"I, too, have worn the Witchblade."
He reached for her wrist and touched the ornate bracelet. Sara felt the caress, felt also its approval of Ian's reverence.
"And it released you unscathed?"
His lips curved just far enough to be a rueful smile.
"No, Sara. Don't you see? It has cursed me though not in the same way as it did Father. It cursed me with the memories of our shared past--ours, not Joan and her lost Knight or Cathain and Conchobar or anybody else--ours--and the fact that you don't remember any of it. Too painful, perhaps."
The last three words were wistful; an attempt to explain something just beyond his grasp.
"What else, Ian?"
Ian studied her intently, understanding with the question that the Witchblade had created an opportunity for him. It was an opportunity that could form only with a temporary respite. He knew the power outage affecting the city was a show of the true power of the Witchblade; it granted him the desire it had left unfulfilled for Irons because Ian possessed a different need.
Unfulfilled desire. The sentiment rebounded within his heart.
"It left me with the desire for more memories like the one you've forgotten from the time you still had your own father. Ask the Witchblade, Sara; try to remember. That is all I ask."
© RK 06.Nov.2005