Countdown
A/N: This is set post 1.04 "Cal Sweeney" and focuses on Emerson's character.
Many thanks to my beta, Uroboros75.
Music: Time – Hans Zimmer
Disclaimer: I do not own Alcatraz or any of the affiliated characters.
Emerson Hauser is not a man of many indulgences, and the few he does have arise rarely and sporadically in his life. However, when such an occasion arises, he relishes it with a decisive feel of accomplishment.
He feels such a sensation as the bars slide shut across another occupied cell in the recreation of Alcatraz, housed up out of sight and out of mind. Cal Sweeney watches him for a moment; Emerson moves on, uninterested in any sort of staring contest. He passes by the cells of Ernest Cobb and Jack Sylvane, their eyes beady and rodent-like in the skewed light of their cells. Then of course is the cell reserved for the one Kit Nelson, which shall remain eternally empty.
He stops by the entrance, his eyes drawn to the plethora of empty cells that remain to be filled. He doesn't like the emptiness; it feels too much like imperfection. He abhors such inferiority, as he's only ever strived for things beyond the means of human ability. Perfection is his drink of choice, but he knows that without discipline, he can become intoxicated on such a thing all too quickly.
He takes comfort in the fact that this task is finite in its duration. Once all the inmates and guards are found it will be sealed away, but he's determined to discover the mystery behind it first; this cord has been coiled too far to be left alone.
Emerson Hauser is not a man of many indulgences, but one that he allows himself is that of time, its measured pulse and rhythm offering a structure that he adheres to. Each tick of his wrist watch, no longer than a heartbeat, accompanies him everywhere. He listens to it now, its steady beat punctuating the air like needles.
Tick… Tock.
He knows that it won't be long now until the next call; the next notification that another one of these misplaced felons has appeared on their proverbial radar. He awaits each call with fervid anticipation; one more of these crooks signified another key and another potential answer.
He is not a man of many indulgences, but the sweet song of hand cuffs clinking into place around a person's wrist is one of his favorites. The cool metal, warped into its shape and linked by a taut chain, serves its purpose well. He wonders when he'll be able to use them again.
He hopes that it is soon.
His eyes skim over the empty cells, devoid of the one thing that solidifies their purpose; it makes him feel slightly empty too. However, he doesn't doubt that soon many of them will be filled. Whether in body bags or in bonds, he will capture each and every one of these displaced criminals, for society demands nothing less of him. If he allows one of these men to go free in any measure, who's to say that others should not be allowed to do the same? The notion makes his skin crawl, because the thought of a person with murder under their belt residing in neighborhoods that many think of as safe could quickly become a nightmare.
No, these men are meant to be kept separate from society; they are from another time, another place when the world did not think as it does now. The guards are much the same: their intentions are pure but their minds hardly so. They are ruled by outdated principles and archaic methods of punishment; these things will not do in today's court, not at all.
One by one, he will find them and unlock that pesky little secret that is behind both their vanishing and reappearance. He's seen the guns and arsenal that these men fight with upon their return; they are not alone in their dealings, but they unfortunately can't recall their contractor.
He's also seen the keys, the silver ones that each man has had tucked away in their pockets; he's seen how they glint in the light, reflecting it with the precision of a knife.
A shrill chime pierces the air like an arrow and Emerson smiles as he reaches into his pocket for his phone. He looks to his watch and his smile grows; what excellent timing.
He picks up his phone and heads for the exit, the hollow drone of his watch ticking against the beat of his footsteps. The hourglass for the remaining felons is already half-empty, and he knows that time is limited for the rest of them. It won't be long now.
Emerson Hauser is not a man of many indulgences, but one of his favorites is the knowledge of ends; that things will eventually cease and be no more. He likes being able to see both ends of the thread, both where it begins and where it ends. The nice thing about a thread is that the length may be decided, so that the path to the end is as short as possible.
He's hoping to make this thread as short as he can, but he's unable to control when and where these people appear, a factor that will undoubtedly hinder his efforts considerably. He doesn't let it deter him though, because he knows that this will end. When the last man is found, it will end.
He answers his phone and steps into the elevator, his watch clicking away in his ear.
Tick… Tock.
No, it won't be long at all now.
Fin
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