Vantage Point
Fewthistle
Author's note: This is one scene, told more or less from three perspectives. It has no connection to any episode, or any other story of mine. It's simply a what-if in a potential universe. A little angsty. Possible character death. Possible. Written 2011.
Vantage Point 1
The explosion threw her backwards, the concussive force of the blast reducing the world to blurred edges and a dull, roaring sound, like a massive ocean inside her mind. She struggled to her feet, her movements shaky, her legs like wobbling columns of gelatin, sending her staggering sideways, hands reaching out automatically in search of purchase. She shook her head to try and clear her vision, but the motion only made the world tilt a little more wildly on its axis. The smoke billowed towards her, thick and acrid, stinging her eyes, leaving her blinking mole-like into the blackened air.
She took a few steps forward, shuffling her feet cautiously, her hands held out in front of her, the sight of her smoke and dirt smeared skin her only anchor in a world thrown into darkness. She stumbled, her left ankle twisting awkwardly as she tried to catch herself. She fell to the ground with a stifled cry, the cracking of her knees against the hard concrete sounding like the sharp retort of a gun. She did not hear the noise, only felt the pain as bone met unyielding cement.
She had no idea where the others were. Hell, she had no idea if the others had even managed to make it clear of the building before the world came tumbling down around them. She began screaming their names, her voice low and hoarse from the smoke. She yelled as loudly as she could, the sound merely a muffled whisper to her own deafened ears.
She tried to clear away the cloud that had settled into her mind like the fog on London streets, tried to remember the details of the moments leading up to the blast, but it was all jumbled, brief flashes, transitory snapshots of the outside of the building, of a car or perhaps a van, of Myka's curls as they lay along the collar of her shirt as she turned away to walk inside.
"Helena, why don't you go around back and see if there's another entrance to the building?" Pete had asked, his eyes scanning the crumbling brick façade.
Such a normal, innocuous request. One of them always went around back, particularly when the artifact they were searching for was being used for rather nefarious purposes. She'd shrugged slightly, her dark eyes warm as she directed a half-smile at Myka, as the other agent and Pete made their way towards the front entrance.
She'd barely rounded the graffiti covered corner of the building when the explosion had detonated, sending glass and brick and concrete hurtling down on her. Looking up, she could see the bricks of the wall seem to freeze for an instant in time, before they were propelled out like buckshot from a rifle, rushing down at her. So, she'd done the one thing that anyone would have done: she'd run.
Vantage Point 2
He forced his eyes open, the slight movement sending shockwaves of pain thundering through his head. It seemed that he could feel each and every bone and muscle in his body and all of them were shrieking in agony. A cut on his forehead was bleeding copiously, the thick, red well of liquid running down into his left eye, reducing his already wavering vision by half.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, then hands, gasping as his palms were quickly lacerated by shards of glass and broken pieces of brick and concrete and wood. He struggled to rise to his feet, only to collapse again, face down on the ground as a sharp, bone-shattering pain shot up his right leg and along his spine like a jolt of electricity. Turning his head as far as he could, he could just make out the twisted length of steel that had once been a ceiling girder lying across his lower leg.
It was too far down for him to be able to get a good grip on it and every movement of his lower limbs sent a fresh jab of pain along his back. After a few minutes of useless struggle, he gave up, his breath coming in stuttered gasps as he rested his forehead against the filthy concrete floor, trying valiantly to will away the darkness that was threatening to overtake him. Part of his mind registered that he was forgetting something, something vital, but he couldn't quite grab onto it, as he tried to remember what had happened and how he'd ended up here.
The inside of the building had been as unprepossessing as the exterior: dank and dark, it reeked of mildew and urine and rotting wood. He'd stepped carefully over the creaking floorboards, eyes squinting in the faint light that managed to force its way through the grime-encrusted windows. He'd heard Myka's footsteps off to his left, the slow tread of her step a match to his own, as she, too, cautiously measured the sturdiness of the dilapidated flooring.
They hadn't had time to find anything, hadn't even made it into the interior of the building when he'd heard Myka yelling his name, shouting at him frantically, "RUN, PETE, RUN!"
Myka. Myka had been with him. Been off to his left somewhere when the world had exploded and the sky began raining down brick and mortar and steel. He had to find Myka. That was the last coherent thought in his mind before the darkness took him again.
He awoke again to the sound of a voice yelling his name loudly next to his ear and then the sensation of hands moving none too gently down his injured leg. He tried to push away the fog that enveloped his thoughts, tried to decipher the words being directed at him, words that could have been in Mandarin for all the sense they made.
"Pete! Pete, wake up! You've got to help me. I cannot do this alone," the voice commanded, hoarse and raspy. "I'm going to try and lift the girder. When I do, see if you can slide your leg free."
It took the voice repeating the instructions two or three times, but he finally managed to make the synapses in his brain that connected hearing and language and ultimately, movement, to all fire at the same time. With a guttural groan, he pulled his leg free as the owner of the voice lifted the heavy steel just enough for him to move.
As he lapsed back into unconsciousness, his last thought was that he should have run faster.
Vantage Point 3
For her, there was only unbearable pain, then a welcoming blackness.
End Point
"Pete! For God's sake, Pete, wake up!" Helena's voice was raw from screaming, hoarse from the dust and smoke. "PETE!"
Pete's eyes finally fluttered open and Helena let out the breath she had been holding. Pete had been unconscious for nearly ten minutes, despite her best efforts to wake him and she still had no idea where Myka was. She'd left Pete's side a few times, making a circular search, but to no avail. She needed him to be awake, needed him to tell her where Myka had been when the explosion occurred.
"Pete!" she tried again, shaking him less than gently this time, gratified to see a light of awareness begin to glow dimly in his eyes. She demanded urgently, "Pete, where's Myka? Where was she?"
"Myka?" he muttered, swiping a hand across his face, trying to stem the flow of blood still running freely from the wide gash on his forehead.
"Yes, Myka, your partner? Dammit, think, man, where was she?!" Helena responded harshly, having no time for niceties. Her hand was wrapped tightly around Pete's upper arm and as she spoke, her fingers dug in sharply.
Pete shook his head quickly, trying to clear away the cobwebs, eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to focus on Helena's words. "She yelled at me to run….she went left, I went right….I could hear her running, hear her coming this way as she yelled and I ran…." he answered haltingly, images and sounds replaying in his mind.
Helena didn't wait for him to say more, straightening and moving off towards the other side of the cavernous room. She yelled out Myka's name, walking slowly, climbing over piles of rubble, picking over them, searching for something, anything to tell her where the other woman might be. She ignored the sharp pain in her ankle, the growing ache in her legs and back, the blurring of her vision and kept on looking, moving methodically across the pile of debris.
She had almost lost hope when she saw it: a hand, Myka's hand, and a sleeve of her tan overcoat, now stained with dust and grime and something else, something dark and rust colored. The hand protruded from a massive pile of rubble, bricks and twisted steel and great hunks of concrete. Helena dropped to her knees, frantically beginning to dig, to pull away debris, calling Myka's name, her lips forming words of comfort and encouragement without conscious thought, her eyes fixed on Myka's hand, praying desperately to a god she didn't believe in for some sign of movement, for some show of life.
God didn't answer.
Fin