This takes place during the last episode, "Endless Forms Most Beautiful", after Sarah and Rachel's first conversation. Paul POV. Slightly AU after Sarah returns to the townhouse.
And just like that I am black ops, intelligence, surveillance. Years of military training direct my actions. Everything clicks into place as trained instinct takes over.
"Terms, Paul," she says, with her lips and her voice, a different accent but the same pitch, the same notes. "These are our terms."
The minute Sarah tells Rachel to shove it and storms out of the building, I am brought to a room with a camera, a tape recorder, and three unidentified men. They want to know everything I know about Sarah Manning.
And just like that I am black ops, intelligence, surveillance. Years of military training direct my actions. My posture, the angle of my gaze in the dark room, and the placement of my hands above the table are instinctual, programmed. I am alert and watchful but calm, not distressed. My words are clear and precise, not superfluous or abstract. My voice is steady.
Their questions are endless and repetitive. They demand step-by-step accounts of every interaction I had with her. They ask for precise breakdowns of her thought process, both explicit decisions and implied preferences. They want detailed descriptions of her features and body language, especially her physical reactions. And hours later, when they finally finish, Rachel walks in and reads her terms.
"You have the prior training, the required instincts," she states, "but more importantly you have a history, however short, with the subject." She peers at me with the same brown eyes on the same face, this time edged by sharply cut blonde hair.
She slides a file labeled "Sarah Manning" across the table. It's thin. "You are in a position to be very valuable." She fixes her gaze, making it obvious that she knows the word has two meanings. "To us. To Neolution," she clarifies. The same hands cross in front of her chest; the same eyebrows lift to assess me. I force myself to focus on the differences, not the similarities.
"Make a choice, Paul" she finishes. I almost laugh. I'm not doing any of this by choice, I remember telling her, that morning when I was making coffee, before she climbed out the window to escape from me.
"Come back tomorrow with your decision," Rachel says. They let me go, for now.
I walk up the short path to the townhouse, replaying the scene in my mind. I can recall thinking, as I answered the same questions again and again, that it was almost comical. I had known Sarah for less than two weeks and for nearly half of that time I had thought she was Beth. There is very little information I can give Neolution, except for the most intimate descriptions they could never receive from any one else. The ten days of knowledge I have on Sarah Manning are nearly useless but the small collection of minutes we spent embraced made me a valuable informer.
Valuable. But for who? Make a choice, Paul.
I reach the door to the apartment and take out my keys, thinking about how I'm not really in a position to benefit either side. The reality is, I'm a pawn either way. If I'm loyal to the Neolutionists, I'll be expected to fake appearances with Sarah. If I choose to fight on her side, I become at best a double agent, at worst a loose end. Choosing one does not free me from the other.
I weigh my options, focusing on the discussion with Rachel, committing every detail of the conversation to memory. Pros and cons and benefits and doubts rotate around my mind. Using the surveillance and intelligence training I've been taught to rely on does not clarify the situation.
Neither choice would be my own. Neither role would get me out on top, and neither option has a visibly lower body count at the end or a more secure payoff. In a way I feel detached from it. I was a tool with Beth for so long that the idea of serving another agenda doesn't bruise my ego the way a knife to the throat should. It's still the same knife.
I'm distracted, so I force my mind to focus before I unlock the door. I know this city no longer has any safe havens, especially not the townhouse, paid for and owned by Neolution. However, the reality of being bombarded again by their proxy, so soon, is slim. But slim chances don't erase years of undercover training or hyper observation.
I turn the handle slowly, one hand on the gun in my right pocket, the other hand ready to slam the door open or force it shut if necessary. I'm prepared for intruders, as always. I'm prepared for uninvited scientists lounging on the couch. I'm prepared to launch into combat, subdue assailants, or, if necessary, flee. I'm even prepared for explosives.
I am not prepared for the trail of blood in the kitchen.
In the same millisecond that my eyes register the thick, red liquid smeared across the floor my weapon is out, safety off, body in a rigid but agile stance. Everything clicks into place as trained instinct takes over.
And then something unexpected happens. Something interferes with the procedures and muscle memory that my mind has memorized from years of drills. Something overrides the command to remain silent, a tactic most beneficial in an unsecure environment.
It happens without warning and without consent: I yell her name.
Panic.
Fear.
And then I'm moving too fast, rushing through the apartment, overlooking corners and spaces behind furniture. I see the trail of blood. I note the streaks on the floor; the lack of blood splatter on the wall suggests a stabbing rather than a shooting. I see the one chair on its side, the other turned slightly outward, a hairy object on the floor. I notice the open cabinet above the sink.
But too quickly I'm moving again. Something is pushing me forward, propelling me to the bedroom before I can confirm that the kitchen and living room are actually secure. I'm not checking my blind spots. I'm not listening for unexpected sounds or footsteps. I'm not even glancing at the windows to see if any are open.
The minute I turn around the doorjamb and look into the bedroom my line of vision zeroes in on the body lying on the bed, unmoving. The familiar body, long wavy hair, the dark clothes, the combat boots.
I rush around the bed and my weapon falls from my grasp. I don't care, doing nothing to shield myself from a possible attacker in the bathroom or the closet. I'm yelling her name, over and over again, breaking any form of stealth I may have had. My hands are shaking, almost violently as I reach out to grab her, positioning myself beside her for CPR.
And then I see the bottle of whiskey.
It's set on the nightstand, her outstretched hand inches away, the cap on the floor. It takes a few deep breaths to let the recollection sink into my spinning head and slow the wild revolutions. Even then I still have to check her pulse, finding it regular and strong. I still have to lift her shirt and run my hands across her unblemished neck, dismissing the possibility of any lacerations, although I can clearly see that there is no blood on the white sheets. I crouch down beside the bed and feel her breath on my cheek.
Tangible evidence confirmed, I sink back on my heels in exhaustion, my gun on the floor, out of reach. I look at the bottle again, the same bottle I laced with sleeping pills a week earlier, a lifetime ago. I see from the liquid line that she didn't drink much, just enough to unknowingly knock herself out.
I can feel my pulse still racing, my head still spinning as I come to terms with the situation, much more slowly than my training should allow.
The blood isn't hers.
And while I should be concerned that the front door is still open and the other rooms haven't been explored and that there is a large volume of blood smeared across the kitchen floor I am paralyzed by the relief I feel each time I watch her chest rise and fall, rhythmically in sleep.
Slowly, too slowly, I am able to look at the situation objectively. I am able to recall the events of the past ninety seconds. I cock my head at this sleeping form in disbelief as I realize that my concern for the wellbeing of a woman I've known for barely two weeks was able to supersede nearly a decade of black ops training and ingrained instincts. Ten years of discipline countermanded by ten days with this punk rock hustler.
But a thought surfaces as I realize this isn't the first time I acted against better judgment, shunning years of intelligence protocol. Loyalty is proven in the moment, Olivier said. At the time, I'd made that decision deliberately even while tied to a chair surrounded by enemies.
This time it was unconscious and unexpected, a reactionary impulse - but still the most unrestrained and uninhibited behavior I've exhibited in a very long time.
I rise. I pick up my gun and haphazardly check the remaining rooms of the apartment, keeping one eye on her sleeping form. I close and lock the front door, pull the curtains, step over the blood to close the cabinet. I walk back into the bedroom, put the cap on the whiskey bottle, and turn down the light.
I stand there at the foot of the bed, looking down at her – the same face. Make a choice, Paul.
Rachel wanted a declaration but Sarah never asked for one. She probably never will; it wouldn't be her style. Regardless, I made my choice the second I yelled her name – the moment my natural instincts, the ones I was trained to repress, prevailed over the synthetic ones embedded in me.
I take off my shoes, let my jacket fall to the floor, and lie down on the bed beside her. I slide my gun under the pillow and pull her into my chest. While a full night's rest probably wasn't her intention when she grabbed the bottle of liquor, it's a good result. She's going to need her strength to manage the storm Rachel is brewing for her.
And while she's sleeping, while she is blissfully unconscious to the world, I'll let my lips brush against her hair and wrap my arms around her body. I'll take the first watch tonight, the first of many. I'll be valuable.
Please review. Counting down the days until April 19!
-LeFay