Prompt: Archetype. Choose one archetype from the master list, and implement it in your fanfic. I chose the "Initiation" archetype, which is defined as: The main character undergoes experiences that lead him towards maturity.
This was inspired from a review video of L.A. Noire, in which the reviewer stated that "A Different Kind of War" would have been more emotionally satisfying if the player had controlled Cole, as opposed to Jack, during the sewer portion of the scenario. This story was my attempt to fill in the blanks. This was also inspired by the song "Falling Again" by Lacuna Coil.
Word Count: 493
The chamber of the Colt spun round as Cole loaded it. Backing up against the wall, he held it up against his shoulder.
"Give it up, Phelps!"
Biting the inside of his cheek, he spun on his heel, and fired at one of the two trench coated figures. The man collapsed to the ground with a gasp and a burst of blood from his chest. Cole dashed forward, swinging the Colt up as the fallen detective's comrade opened fire at him.
White hot pain ripped through his side as a bullet grazed him, causing him to stumble slightly in his steps. Whipping his arm about in the air, Cole fired. Stopping before the corpses of the two men, he panted hard.
He grimaced at the splotch of blood on his suit jacket. He felt the urge to kick one of the bodies as he did so, each of them still wearing their badges. Everyone knew who he was, fallen poster boy of the LAPD, but he couldn't say the same for the others, being too consumed by his work to be much of a socialite.
Cole snorted at that. As if he could seriously consider himself such a thing, having devolved himself into nothing more than a robot. All that it brought him was a bullet wound in the back and a broken home.
Covered in sweat, dirt, blood, and other unidentified substances, his teeth chattered as he waded into waist-deep water.
Kelso had seen right through him, and perhaps he had also been able to do so when they were in OCS together. Cole's reflection was indiscernible to himself in the water. He had thought he had known who he was, and damn, if he wasn't good at playing the role of hero.
The Japanese civilians gasped and writhed in pain from the scorching flames, the murdered Dahila women stared back at him, their pale bodies mangled, and his former unit members, lying on the dirt in Okinawa, or splayed across floors in the city they had fought to return to, accusingly glared at him. The hands of the dead reached to him from the water, attempting to drag him under as he waded further until he was nearly up to his neck. He grabbed a hold of the concrete foundation, and pulled himself out.
"Don't you look back, don't you dare look back," he muttered shakily to himself before collapsing, his hands pressing onto the cold floor. After taking a few moments to collect himself, he slowly rose.
Even after all had seemed lost, Cole still had something, if Elsa was still alive. If he had her still after tonight, then that would be enough. One last case to close, and he would shed the corrupt LAPD to become…whatever it was, it didn't matter right now, for he did not know this stranger in the mirror yet.
Shouts sounded in the distance, and Cole spun the chamber of the Colt again.