Title : There's Only Numbers
Author : Tya (tyarc on LJ)
Character : Charlie (Don)
Genre : Angst, Character death
Rating : PG
Words : 550
Disclaimer : I'm writing fanfiction. The main point being that it's fan
fiction.
Summary : He's a consultant, he's here to run the numbers.
A/N : I'm experimenting here - still trying to tame this beautiful english language. Also, don't read if you are in a bad mood, because it won't make it any better. It's kind of a dead end for Charlie, a hopeless situation without... hope, actually.
There's Only Numbers
It's okay. He can do this. He's a consultant, he's here to run the numbers.
He has to gather as much data as possible, so he notices the wind's velocity, the way the big dark cloud slowly leaves the scene, the number of black bags. The firemen are still fighting to extinguish the smallest seats and they keep moving rapidly – it frustrates him a bit that he can't count them exactly.
He sees David, some feet apart, and automatically walks toward him. David is crying but it's okay because his sobs give out sound waves and these ones have mathematical applications. It's okay because he's a consultant and he's here to run the numbers – and tears are a good start to run the numbers.
He gets closer to the stretcher and removes the white sheet - he needs to see the data by himself. He carefully takes note of the small burns on the arms and after a rapid calculation he decides it has to correspond to a few seconds of exposition to the flames. His best hypothesis is that these arms went through the fire to remove something from it, but of course he'll have to check that later.
There's something weird about the open eyes. They are more opaque than usual. It's probably because of the smoke, he figures ; the effect of an extended exposition to it. These eyes probably were trapped in the fire's area.
He's calculating the way the light waves end up on the retina because of the additional opacity, but he suddenly remembers what Don says about letting the coroners do their job. He tries to step away before their arrival, but something hinders his movement.
He looks down at his hand, a bit impatient, and is surprised to find it holding on the corpse's hand. He wants to let it go but no, his body won't. That's okay, though, he'll just explain the coroners that it's not his fault.
He concentrates on the hand, which is a bit cooler than his own. He wants to calculate when exactly this hand stopped warming itself but he has no data about the body cooling process. He frowns because he doesn't like it when a lack of knowledge prevents him from doing the math.
Someone approaches him but he can't say if it's one of the coroners because he doesn't hear what she says – he is too concentrated on trying to figure out the frequency of the sound waves created by her vocal cords.
Waves are good data so it's okay that she keeps talking to him.
Then she touches his hand – the one holding the corpse – and he wants to say that it's not his fault but instead he focuses on the other people coming around him. More people are okay because that means more data and data are welcome. More data are good.
The problem reaches a new level of complexity when they all try to break his hold on the corpse – he should really explain them that it's not his fault – but he doesn't mind the overwhelming data. It'll just take more time to organize them, that's all. That's not a problem. It's his job. The more data he'll have, the more accurate the numbers will be.
And numbers are what matter the most.
Tears, broken voices and corpses are only numbers, in the end. Don's cold, lifeless hands are numbers, too.
Everything is numbers, more than ever.
- end -
