Doctor Reece – Subway Troubles
Theresa was infuriated. She clenched her fist and then loosened once she felt crescent indents becoming marked into the skin of her palms. She wanted to hit something, but the considering everything in the subway was nearly metallic metal that probably was not her most grand idea, but it certainly was not the stupidest. She exited Union Square Station and into the train with a harsh scowl.
She loathed her job. Working part-time at a Hospital clinic had not been her ideal job placement after getting all of those degrees. She had wanted to be a doctor, she was ready for the field, but first she "needed experience" that wasn't "in your usual field". What a load of bullshit. They just did not want their insignificant balance to be thrown off when a twenty-six-year-old woman strolled in nonchalantly to blow the scale completely off.
Practically throwing herself into one of the more empty benches at the far end of the subway train, Theresa yanked out her cellphone and dialed his number. She pressed it against her ear, closing her eyes as she waited for the answer. It never came. Cursing underneath her breath, she jammed the phone back into the messenger bag at her hip, the yearning of a cigarette prominent as stress clouded her mind.
She stared at one of the dim fluorescent lights above her head for a few seconds, enough time until the shape of the light was implanted into her vision before something else caught her wandering eye. She blinked, slowly, shifting her head toward the horizontal sliding door that connected to another train just right of them. She overlooked the teenage couple exchanging saliva and giggling like there was an insider joke, frowning at the person standing there.
But as he stepped inside of the train, she realized that that was not his face. He was wearing a mask, and even though the face held a fragment of recognition somewhere in the back of her memory, she could not place it. Theresa observed with curiosity, until another person (with the same exact mask) followed in after as well. They were the same height, the same build, and the same clothes
Something in Theresa chilled as the first one swiveled to look at the camera. She gradually shifted and opened her bag, as if she had no sense of a coherent idea of what was occurring. She dialed 911, and placed it down into her bag, eyes widening as the two men spoke.
"Resurrection! Resurrection!" they chanted in harmony, but there was nothing musical about their tones. The man nearest to them lurched forward in a blind panic, swinging a high fist. One of them gripped his collar and turned them around so he could slam the man into the door – and then he stabbed him.
Theresa's mouth gaped open in apprehension and terror, more specifically when the door she was near slid open, and a third vigilante entered the scene. He rushed at her with the intent to kill, and she almost froze and allowed him to do so. But years of service kicked in and she deflected his weapon-seized arm with the palm of her hand, shoving herself backwards to provide a fighting range to defend herself.
Something went rigid in the man's shoulders – surprise, maybe? Screams of horror and agony were swiftly filling the subway, but Theresa steeled herself to not go down without a fight. A face flashed in her mind. Chiseled chin and cheekbones, thoughtful and contemplative furrow of eyebrows, stormy blue eyes.
Determination settling in, Theresa struck out grabbed the mask before she was sure he could register her movement. Although she knew discovering his identity would be an advantage, she could not go over the boundaries with her luck, she just needed to stay alive until the train stopped for the next station. She yanked the man forward and shoved her knee into his abdomen, listening intently for that rush of air to deplete from his lungs to gain her benefit.
"Joe Carroll lives! Ryan Hardy can't stop us. Resurrection is coming."
Theresa propelled the shoulders of the man that was currently doubled over against her, straight into the man who had been strolling over to them. She despised the way he walked, as if he were a carefree civilian and had all the leisure time in the world, or perhaps it was because he allowed his 'third counterpart' to fall on his back. He just coolly stepped over him, the eyes of his mask scorching into her slightly trembling form. She felt her breathing laboring, her hand extending downward and snatching the weapon the man prior to her had dropped. It looked like a screwdriver, but slightly sharper and handmade. "I am not scared of you," she bit out, with a fierce snarl on her lips, the handle clenched between her fingers.
"We'll see," he said. And then he attacked. Theresa restrained the impulsive urge to haul herself backwards, away from his reach, but knew the wall of the train was somewhere a little ways behind her. She could not have him corner her, she would die for certain. The first thing she noticed about this man was that he had somehow been trained, he did not have the posture of someone from a military or police force, but his aim at her was accurate with precision.
She slapped his fist away with her forearm, and knowing he would expect her to jab with her weapon, she instead raised her knee and jammed it into his open side. A grunt was what she received before she then attempted to slam the weapon into the right of his throat, straight into his jugular vein. A shriek erupted from her throat when a hand grabbed her wrist from completing the action, wrenching her forward so she was crashing into the man she had been about to kill.
Something sharp pierced her side. A scream ripping through her mouth, Theresa felt her hair being snatched backward just as a second stab punctured her shoulder. She jerked herself and thrashed away from the restraining grip, but a force – someone's weight – immobilized her to one of the sickly yellow and red benches. "Bastard! Get off –"A roar of torment burst through her throat when an incision slashed across her cheek a part of her neck.
Theresa fought with all of her remaining strength. She bit one of their wrist and nearly yanked off a mask before they all began shouting at one another hurriedly. All sounds blurred into a mix of monotone, and all she could do was press her hands harshly into her wounds to prolong the inevitable bleeding process. The man that had been keeping her upright with one knee balanced against a chair leaped backwards, and she tumbled to the floor with a muffled moan.
The gloved fingers were still tangled into her chestnut hair, and she felt him lean down and hiss six words into her ear, his warm breath fanning her sweat-laced neck. She realized he must have taken off the mask. "We'll come back for you later," he chuckled, releasing and soothing back her hair before someone bellowed once more.
She coughed, crimson staining the metal flooring beneath her, before her vision began dimming. Black pooled her blurred gaze.
Her heart monitors drew her away from her subconscious. The rhythmic beating soothed her pounding headache, and Theresa formed a grimace as she cracked open her eyes, blearily. The world tilted for a split second, and then everything went back into place and she was departed with peering up at the white ceiling tiles of the hospital.
She rubbed her shoulder tenderly through the hospital gown, closing her eyes and reaching her other hand to press the button to alert a nearby nurse. She needed morphine, or any pain medication that would not disrupt her healing process. Theresa groaned as the door to her room was opened, and she instinctively spoke, "The blade did not damage any muscles too severe, did it? I tried to make certain that they hit those spots of the body, even if I could have bled out faster," she chuckled, the stupidity of the action now becoming clear.
She had peeled up her gown, fingers skimming across her hip and blemished side. "I guess even a doctor does not think too strategically during dire circumstances," the cut stinging on her cheek was a prime example of that statements.
"Damn straight," someone mumbled lowly. Her eyes darted to the person she had thought to be a nurse, but instead found a five-foot-eleven (in-a-half, he would generally be certain mention) standing stiffly by the door, his hand still in-place on the doorknob. Michael Weston's presence was a welcoming aura in the room, despite the deplorable frown on his lips. "You shouldn't even have been on that train, Reece."
"Really, Michael?" Theresa relaxed back into the bed, a weary sigh escaping her aching lungs. "You know what, you actually have some nerve coming here and berating me." She flicked her eyes away from him, not wanting for him to see the flaring emotions surfacing in her blue irises. She snorted, the movement sending an eruption of pain through her midsection. "Shouldn't you be back in Virginia, at Woodbridge?"
After a pregnant pause, Mike shifted and walked over until he was standing beside her hospital bed, gazing over the equipment hooked onto her and anywhere except her face. "Didn't you hear? The subway incident had to do with the Havenport Tragedy anniversary."
Theresa scowled, bitterly. "Yeah, I think I heard something about that."
Mike winced physically. "Sorry, Thea." He looked exhausted as he pulled up a chair and rested his elbows against the mattress, careful to avoid movement on her wounded side. "It's been a rough week."
"It's been a rough year."
He chuckled, but it was without humor. "You can say that again."
Theresa eyes implored the rigid lines on his face. "You don't have to go back out on the field, Michael. They understand." She instinctively reached out and almost placed her hand over his, but discovered herself halting and nearly allowing her fingers to skim his knuckles before she tucked them away. She knew the feeling of not wanting to go back out on the field, but somehow, judging by his facial expression, Mike needed to be active on duty. It was to keep his head clear, like hers was to perform surgery. "I'm guessing you have a horde of Agents outside, might as well haul them in here for debriefing, yeah?"
"You're wounds were almost critical, Thea. Are you up for it?" even though Mike inquired her, she knew there was not much up for debate. She was a former F.B.I Agent, and part of the Witness Protection detail, they would force the answers out of her while she was unconscious somehow, either way. She laughed lightly, nodding her head toward the door as she shifted the bed enough to where she was merely inclined back.
He hopped off the chair and opened the door just as a nurse and several people filed in behind her. She looked thoroughly annoyed, and Theresa smiled thinly at the elder woman. The police force was always interfering with nurses and doctors job, but it was always for the better good and Theresa had never complained about it. None of the nurses would aloud. "Ah, Cheryl. Please tell me that is very much welcomed morphine."
"If it was up to me I wouldn't be giving you none of this shit," she grumbled, sarcastically. "You damn well know I offered to give you a ride Monday." Despite her words, she busied herself with gaining the accurate portion of pain medication and began the process of placing it to run into the IV attached to her sore wrist.
"I'm a stubborn woman," Theresa shrugged. She swiveled her attention to the African American gentlemen in the room and grinned. "Philips, nice to see you. Mendez. If I didn't know you so well, I'd say you had sent those guys to kill me off, me knowing all your valued secrets and all."
"Yeah, we can only wish." He nodded his head in respect, glancing briefly at Gina's small smile. "It's nice to see you pull through, Reece. We miss you out on the field."
"No you don't," she leaned her head back when dizziness from the morphine clouded her head. Theresa felt her gaze flashing back to Mike's guarded face, but when she saw the person poised beside him, she felt all of her breath release. "Ryan Hardy," she couldn't force herself to smile, "the man of the hour, it seems."
"Unfortunately, the year," his smile stated sympathy. "We really don't want to take up your time, Dr. Reece –"
"Oh my God," Theresa held her injured side as she guffawed enough that Cheryl had to slap her thigh as a form of chastisement. "You hear this guy, Michael? He just called me a doctor."
Mike rolled his eyes.
Philips explained, "Reece was a private medic for the Protection Witness detail, as well as a handy F.B.I Agent on the field when others are too far away from a hospital. She's currently off-duty, though, so she's stationed here at Manhattan Memorial as a nurse to gain civilian experience."
"A waste of talent if you ask me," Cheryl murmured as she began assisting Theresa in slipping her nightgown off. She allowed it without complaint, knowing that her chest was medically and appropriately wrapped and her underwear was currently intact. She wanted more morphine though, when the nurse began redressing her injured shoulder.
"Want I just tell my whole life story and credentials? Since were already summarizing?" Theresa rolled her eyes, noticing that Ryan narrowed in on the familiar facial structure of Michael and her. "Well, my last name is not Reece. It's more of an alias, since I'm ashamed to be Mikey's sister and all."
"Shut up," Mike sneered, but there was a nostalgic gleam in his eye. He motioned to Ryan, then to her. "This is Thea Moan Weston, a forever-alone ex-Fed with zero to no friends and is actually living on my sectional."
"Hell, Michael! If I wasn't stabbed twice and have these stitches in my face I would deck you across the room!" she grinned at Ryan, shooting Mike her middle finger simultaneously. "My name Theresa Simone Weston, I am a happily single ex-Agent, who still consults, I choose to walk around the crowds, and if I'm not correct, you're probably going to crash in my apartment guest bedroom."
He heaved a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, dropping his hand soundly against his thigh. "Without pay," he clarified.
"With."
"Without. You owe me."
"You bitch –"Theresa opened her mouth to shriek out obscenities on the lack of respect, and how just because the little hellion was a year older than her did not give him any special law-abiding rights. But before World War 3 could officially commence, a clearing of a throat echoed in the hospital room.
Ryan held a fist to his mouth, an impossibly restrained grin trying to stretch his mouth. "Why has he never mentioned you?" he asked in disbelief. He was greatly amused by their bickering, she could tell.
Mike threw his hands up. "Why would I? Look at her."
"Wait until I'm physically able –"
"And you'll what? You remember our last fight?"
Theresa growled viciously. "Oh yeah, I remember knocking you over the couch."
"And then you tripped over the coffee table."
Philips held out a single hand, and all remaining voices were faded into two heated glares aimed at one another's mirroring blue eyes. She slithered out her tongue and pointedly mouthed, "You're jealous," and then aimed a wink at Ryan for good measure. She already liked the guy, enjoying the way he looked over at Mike like he had seen a whole new personality burst forth from the man.
"Okay," Mendez covered up her laugh with a cough. "Even though we all love the Weston sibling rivalry, we need to get down to business, Reece."
With those words, an invisible tense fog draped over the room. Theresa thanked Cheryl as she finished remedying her wounds, patting the older woman's hand as the nurse swiftly took her leave from the room. She comfily rearranged herself on the cot, in a position where the puncture wounds gave her no imminent irritation. "I had a late morning shift . . ."
And so she gave the fully detailed report of her encounter. She was not foolish, so she even mentioned the comment by one of the masked men: we'll come back for you later. She shuddered at the recalling, closing her eyes and finished the story with her fainting from either the pain, shock, or blood loss. Possibly a mixture of all three.
She had never actually been in such a surreal situation as that beforehand. In the Witness Protection, they were damn-good at their job. There was commonly no confrontation to be worrisome over, besides when relocating. In the F.B.I, she was the medic on missions. She was well-trained in the art to hand-to-hand combat, but her team had always protected her since she was the one with the degree in medical practices.
To be placed in front of three armed men, with at least one knowing how to actually fight, was intriguingly horrifying. Though she had done well in her perspective, she would also be avoiding subways for the next few hundred years – so there's that.
Departing words were exchanged after her statement, and soon Michael stood at the open doorway, just focusing on her prone form. "I don't know when I'll be back, okay?"
A tinge of disappointment struck her chest, but she smiled warmly nevertheless. "Get your ass moving, Michael. You still have a key right?"
A single nod, and he gently clicked the door shut behind him.
She felt like crying, for some reason.
Theresa spent the rest of her evening, and night, staring up at the boring ceiling tiles. It was times like this when she sympathized with the patients that had been forced to spend months in a hospital. She could only imagine the stir-crazy jitteriness that came with that. She liked the idea of hospitals, she worked here, but they could at least splash a few interesting colors here and there, right? This was just maddening.
An NYPD officer had dropped off her messenger bag that had been left on the subway train. It seemed Michael or Philips had pulled a few strings to pluck it out of the evidence room. She was currently on the phone with her father, whose voice was rising gradually with each short sentence.
"Idiot. I've told you those subways are bad news. Dangerous people get on those trains, Theresa." Richard scoffed. "You should have a car. Why don't you have one?"
"Dad, they're an inconvenience. New York is a big city, but everything is somehow close by. I'm fine. Your fine. My bank account is fine, thanks to me not making monthly payments on a car that I don't need, and can't afford." Theresa was holding the cellphone against her shoulder, struggling to peel off the lid to sugar-free applesauce that had been leftover from lunch. She was growing increasingly annoyed. "You know I never take the subways . . ."
"Yeah, and it's the time that you do when three homicidal psychopaths hop on-board and play tag with knives."
She laughed lightly. "I don't think they got the concept of the game, they didn't give us a chance to tag ba –"
"Theresa." Richard chuckled, but it held a hysterical note in it. "Perhaps you should just stick to daily routines. Never step a foot pass the line."
"God, dad. Now that's just ridiculous. You're paranoid!"
"I'm realistic!" Richard argued, but his tone was soft. He sighed into the speaker. "I love you, Thea. You need to keep watch on your brother, you hear? Lord knows he needs it."
Theresa gave up on the applesauce, placing it on the table in front of her and gripping the cellphone. "Dad, he's had it rough. If you would just –"
"I got to go. Love you."
Theresa made a scornful sound in the back of her throat, practically throwing the touchscreen phone on the sanitized portable table. She ran a hand through her chestnut hair, breathing in deeply when she felt how rigidly stiff her shoulders and back was. The hospital was getting old fast, she considered quitting because of the monotone lethargy this room was radiating.
She realized how alike her brother and father was. They were stubborn as a mule, persistent, but never when it came to personal issues. She had taken after her mother in that category, thank God. Ever since Deborah died, Michael was avoiding everything like the plague. Even her, which hadn't unsettled her at all, she was understanding in the matter. But he sure as hell wasn't coping with it.
Theresa sighed and looked over, staring out the hospital window and simply wondering. What was in store for her now? Who were these acolytes, and why stir so much trouble for someone who was long-dead? Why can't people just let the past fade away like every other memory?
Why did people want Joe Carroll to stay alive so fucking bad?