A/N this is my first fan fiction story. I began writing it for my teenage daughter and myself, so it is pretty much follows canon. It is also a gen adventure and therefore 'shipper free-don't let that stop you from reading between whatever lines you wish. Currently Unbeta'd.
A/N I am in the middle of a re-write that will hopefully make the story stronger...
Disclaimer: I own no part of the world of Sanctuary or the characters therein. I write mainly to entertain myself.
Sanctuary: The Clurichaun Blues
by Sydde
30,000 ft. above Minnesota near the Canadian border
Gordon Mitchell loved to fly. He was fat, slightly balding, and socially awkward. He habitually wore stained t-shirts, worn-in denim pants that sagged in the rear, and trainers held together with duct tape because "there's still good wear in 'em." He'd left the armed forces when the first gulf war was over, went out for and got his pilot's license. He was hired by the Sanctuary. shortly after that They had needed a pilot who could also handle a gun and was trained for battlefield conditions.
He was closing on 20 years a pilot for the organization's small fleet of cargo couriers. The hours were long, and he had to be ready to fly at a moment's notice to some of the most desolate, most isolated locations, and transported some very deadly creatures. Still, the job kept him off the ground, and that kept him happy.
It was the people he could do with out.
Take this new security guard, David something. Holling. David Holling. Skinny fella, but wiry. And he had that James Dean hair cut and a leather jacket to cover his shoulder holster. Brand new jeans and cowboy boots. Here was a lad who'd embraced the American Dream.
Andhe just would not belt up.
"So, how long you been flying these runs, then?" The younger man leaned against the back of the co- pilot's chair, rapidly tapping his fingers against the top of the cushion." rap-tapa-tap
"Long enough," Gordon grumbled.
"You ever see what was in one of those boxes?" rap-tapa-tap.
"Only once."
"Yeh?" David's face lit up with interest as he looked over at the older man, "What happened?"
Gordon turned and eyeballed him. He held up his left hand. A ragged scar ran down across his palm from his ring finger to his wrist. The fingers were pale and twisted-unusable. "This happened. Herself had to stitch 'em back on. "
"Oh," the younger man said, making an awkward half nod half shrug. He looked around the cockpit idly, fingers steadily rap-tap-taping on the back of the copilot's chair. "So what do you think is back there?"
Gordon swore under his breath, ignored the younger man, and reached for his travel cup. He took a sip of cold tea and made a face. The autopilot was doing it's job, and by rights he should be sitting back with his feet up and nice hot cuppa.
"Well," David continued, "what ever it is, its alive, right? And rare, too."
Gordon sighed. "They're almost always alive... and dangerous. You can tell by the labels, right? The ones marked 'Live' and 'Caution: Wild Animal.' Now will you shut it?"
"Why do you think they'd move it all the way out there, from London?"
"Ignorance and apathy." Gordon growled.
"You what?"
"I don't know and Idon'tcare!"
David crossed his arms and rolled his eyes, "Oh that's classic. Really."
"Look, its not our place to know, innit?" Gordon said, and meant it. "We just guard the boxes, deliver 'em, and let the professors deal with the sharp end." This was Gordon Mitchell's own personal Prime Directive, and it had kept him alive, gainfully employed, and flying.
But the younger man wasn't having it.
"You've just got no imagination left have you?" David said. "This is just some sort of mail run-deliver the goods and drive off. Some of these things, well, they're a mystery aren't they? Don't you want to know what they are? Where they came from, what they're worth? Bet they're worth a fortune."
"No I don't," The pilot's voice was hoarse and low, the way some men shouted when they were well past tired and angry, "The things we transport are dangerous, boy. Curiosity killed the cat and that's a fact. And don't come back at me with satisfaction and all, because I've seen it...," he nodded at the cargo compartment in general, "...Kill better men than you and me."
David flushed red and opened his mouth the speak, but Gordon cut him off, "Now, you just get back there and guard your precious box. Be told, lad. And if you really need to pester some one, ask the poor sod comes to pick it up!"
Gordon turned back to the flight controls, and didn't see the look of deep resentment settle across the younger man's features. He did hear him sigh heavily and push himself up off the copilot's cushion.
"Right." the young man said, and slid out through the half open cockpit door.
"...And while you're back there put the damn kettle on." Gordon shouted over his shoulder. He reached under the pilots chair and pulled out a largish silver flask, undid the top and took a swig. "That lad's not going to last another month at this," the pilot thought to himself. It was too bad for Gordon Mitchell that he was right.
oOo
David Holling was frustrated, furious with Mitchell, sad sack of burnout that he was. All he'd wanted was a little conversation. The trip had been a nightmare so far. He'd thought the flyover from London had been bad. Hours of nothing but himself and Jeffries that damn pine crate for company. Mitchel had locked himself in the cockpit, only leaving fetch more tea, or piss it out.
Jeffries had been willing to trade stories, play cards, speculate on what their cargo was, and what it was worth. He should have known it could be worse. Didn't he always? The layover at JFK was a nightmare. His first time in new York, and the closest he got was a flyby view of the skyline, a birds eye view of the Statue of liberty.
Then he'd found out that they'd only be using one guard for the last leg of the journey. And then he'd lost the coin toss. This job really did not pay enough. "Too damn little," he thought, "Too damn little by far."
oOo
In the dark of the cargo box a creature like a bundle of sticks wrapped in old rags, huddled. The box was filled with fresh, clean, comfortable straw, and lined on all sides with rowan wood, but it could still feel the burn of the cruel iron surrounding it on all sides.
"What a pickle. What a pickle jar" the thing in the dark muttered to itself. "In it now, me lad, and gone too far. Too far." It rocked back and forth and hummed to itself for a moment. "How to get out. Mustn't go all the way, bring em' to me. That's what I need."
Concentrating for a moment, it let its attention wander. There were men aboard the plane—two men. The one was old and apathetic. There was no want in him to work with, at least none that he hadn't already grown easy with. But the younger man! Stuffed full of the swirling, glorious want of poverty and youth.
"Ah perfect, perfect," the creature cackled softly, "Yes indeed! And nothing softens the mind like a little greed." It began to whisper quiet, earnest nonsense, its voice resonant but soft. In the darkness its eyes glowed green as emeralds, green as clover.
oOo
Holling stood in the back of the cargo plan and eyed the crate in front of him. It was a simple pine crate, but wrapped in bands of iron, and covered in warning stickers in five languages. "A bit of overkill, that," he thought. "Has to be."
He hadn't been with the Sanctuary for very long, a year-give or take a few weeks-but that was long enough for him to learn a few things about the operation. Sometimes, just sometimes, the warnings and the stickers and the iron containment bands were just for show. They were there to protect the abnormal, not the delivery men.
"Mustbevaluable," he thought to himself. "Iwonderwhatitis." The nagging curiosity had started as a whisper, like a buzzing behind his ear. But the whisper became a thought, the thought an idea, and now here he was with a hacksaw and a crowbar.
Time to put them to good use.