Disclaimer: I do not own The Sentinel, Sentinel's characters or anything belong to the television series. I do not make a claim on them. Established characters are the property of Pet Fly Productions and UPN. Original characters are the sole property of the author. I do own the plot.
Warning: Swearing, very minor violence,
A.N: I decided to put out a short experimental piece since I'm still not done with the next chapter for the Institution. Frankly, that chapter won't be out anytime soon, because of school. For more details, look in my profile.
This story has been beta-ed by JakFrost.
Stockholm Syndrome
They were visiting the men's prison when it happened. It happened fast. It happened unaware. It happened so suddenly that it took a few moments before anyone actually realized what had occurred.
Detective James Joseph Ellison and Police Consultant Blair Jacob Sandburg had been interviewing a man who had information regarding a current suspect. They had stopped outside the prison courtyard where men were roaming about and exercising. There was nothing else the men could do. Prison life was monotonous. Repetitive. Full of wariness and games of deceit and backstabbing, it was a life not worth living.
Men in their orange jumpsuits glanced warily at the detective and consultant. They sneered at the appearance of the hippy, especially at his long hair and earrings. Blair paid them no mind, he grinned at them. Jim raised an eyebrow and shook his head fondly. Blair enjoyed shaking up people's perspectives and opinions.
It was strange that Jim didn't notice the suspicious movements of a particularly shifty-eyed person. He would blame himself later. He enjoyed the murmurs and tones that flowed from his guide's mouth; not fully on guard, not expecting anything. Blair was chatting excitedly about the group of nuns from St. John church that had come to volunteer, and help the men repent their sinful ways. The inmates watched out of the corners of their eyes as some of the nuns boarded the bus.
At the moment, Blair was talking. Explicating on the ways society both helped and ignored the deeds of man's sins. A flash of orange blur and Blair was caught about the throat with a glint of steel chains. He was pulled backward hard and fast. Jim was shoved roughly onto the dirt ground.
It was perfect timing.
Half of the nuns were on board, while the other half swerved out of the prisoner's path. He scaled the bus, frightening the nuns, and ordered the old priest to drive.
Jim had pulled out his gun, and aimed it at the bus, but he couldn't shoot. There was no chance. Every possible opening was blocked by an innocent life. Yet, he couldn't. Because Blair was directly in the line of fire. He was squirming and shouting. It was impossible to aim without injuring Blair.
Thinking quickly, he shot at the bus tire, but it didn't work. The bullets ricocheted off the tire steel and missed the rubber completely. His truck was too far away thanks to Sandburg's insistence about not making a scene or wanting to disturb the other inmates. No other vehicles were around. No one wanted to risk the prisoners escaping. Expect one did. Just now. One of the nuns called the police but they wouldn't get there in time. The prison guards were too slow. The facility wasn't a high-level security and few guards were on duty.
It was too late.
The bus disappeared with a trail of dust.
Blair was gone.
Jim was still in a state of shock when Simon and the gang arrived. It was a cold comfort when he heard that all of the nuns and the priest were safe. All but Blair. The prisoner, Nathan Lashing, had let everyone off except for Blair. Why, no one knew. But, he was still alive.
Still alive. That one thought kept Jim going. Kept him determined to find his guide. And he tried. Used all available resources, but it was to no avail.
Six months later, the case status changed to 'cold file'. Simon was sorry he had to let the case go; unfortunately, the resources couldn't be spared. Jim thought it was too soon but understood where his captain was coming from. Still, he kept at it in private, during his free time, and vacation days. All of his time was spent searching.
Two years later, he finally got a bite. He was a sentinel on a rampage, seeking the whereabouts of his guide and the prisoner whom incited his rage.
Blair sighed. He was always cold.
It was the same as always for the past two years. His room was drab and empty. Just a single bed with a couple of sheets and a barred window. The doors were unlocked. Nathan knew he wouldn't run. His skin pale and white but he was healthy. He was dressed in blue jeans with a dark sweater over a thin white dress shirt. He had on dark sneakers. Nathan dressed him everyday and fed him too.
He had rebelled in the beginning, but soon stopped. Weeks of beating and lack of food would do that to a person. He learned his lessons well. He was a shadow of his former self, a porcelain doll. There was only one comfort in his new life: painting.
Internally, Blair knew he had Stockholm syndrome. It was as if he was looking at himself performing these actions on the outside. He knew he was doing it and yet, still he thought, that's not me. It's an illusion, a dream. And that is how it was. He was living a dream everyday, a blank empty dream, but a dream all the same. He couldn't put up a fight. He was resigned.
His feet pitter-patter across the wooden floors. He pushed open a door, and gazed around. It was the restroom. White with cold tiles, it was devoid of feeling. A single toilet and a section of the wall with a thin sheer curtain, offering a vague sense of privacy, was all he had. Just another empty room, a room to be left behind in half a year; Nathan kept them on the move.
He walked slowly across it and opened the other door. Outside was the garden.
The ground was wet with dew. Soft sunlight shone through the branches of the trees. He carefully stepped out. His paintings were spread across the garden, each with its own stand. He had gotten better overtime. He worked with watercolor, oil, gouache, acrylics, graphite, pastels, and charcoal. Nathan didn't allow books. He appreciated art though.
Nathan often bought new supplies for him; calling him a genius and praising his work. As long as he painted, he could keep Nathan happy. As long as he didn't talk except when it was necessary, he could keep Nathan happy. As long as he kept himself like a puppet, he could keep Nathan happy. It was always Nathan.
He stepped out into the grass, and headed to a blank canvas on a wooden stand. It was a sight to marvel at. All kinds of paintings and artwork littered across the ground, highlighted by the sweet scenery of the beloved garden; plants and flowers framing the art, and trickles of vines crawling up the stands.
His hair was clasped back with a silver band. Nathan preferred his hair back. He didn't mind. No. He didn't care. He picked up a brush, its tip wet with paint as he started to paint over his light sketch—an image of boat on the lake during a summer sunset. He gently brushed his fingertips over a dry brush that was soft and hard. He liked the sensation. He smiled. A small one that paled in face of his old smile; it was painful to see.
Blair felt pressure on his shoulders. He looked up to see Jim's smiling face and arms around his shoulders.
"Hey, buddy. What's up?"
"Hello, Jim. You shouldn't be here."
Jim shrugged good-naturally. "But, you're lonely. You need me."
"Need you? Yeah, I do," laughed Blair bitterly. "Except, you're not you. You're an illusion. If you're here, then I'm insane."
"Maybe not," Jim crossed his arms. "The mind needs a coping mechanism, and I'm it."
Blair ignored him. He didn't talk to Jim's illusion much despite frequent coaxing from the phantom. Sometimes, Blair felt like he was barely holding on to his sanity. He chuckled with amusement to himself. How do I know if I'm insane? If I question my sanity, does that mean I'm insane or sane? The paradox of being insane is so ironic. I guess I must be insane.
He loaded the brush with a bit of crimson for the sunset.
"Blair," shouted Nathan. "Come on. We're going. Now."
Jim vanished. Blair could swear that he still hear Jim's voice. He wasn't worried. The specter would be back to haunt him. He always did.
Blair dropped his brush. The red paint splattered across the painting and the ground, imitating blood. He numbly nodded and obediently followed him.
Nathan shoved a bunch of tomatoes in his arms. "Get into the car."
They walked out. Blair heard his name. He turned his head and saw Jim. It was another illusion. More life-like than others, but still an illusion.
Nathan held open the door and Blair sat down. He buckled Blair in quickly, slammed the door shut and hurried to the driver's side.
"Fuck," he swore. He started up the engine and back onto the street. "Give me a tomato."
Blair delicately placed a small tomato into his open palm. Nathan had a tendency to eat cherry tomatoes when he was angry. He bit off the green parts and stem and spit it on the floor. Once Nathan was done with one, Blair handed him another one.
Blair was unaware of the increase in speed, and of Jim Ellison, his partner and sentinel.
"Hello. I'm Detective Jim Ellison. May I ask you something?"
The lady peered up at him from underneath her giant straw hat, her shears clasped loosely in her hands. "Yes?"
He took out a picture of Blair. "Have you seen him? I've been looking for him for two years. He was kidnapped."
She gently took a hold of the picture, and noted the worn edges and crumpled with long use. Jim took the picture out often and gazed at it. It was hope and revenge that kept him going. Perhaps, it was in part repentance. It was obvious that the man was important to him.
"Yes, he lives in that house over there." She tilted her head toward the right.
"Thank you," he said kindly. He didn't expect it to happen, to finally reach and find Blair. Jim left and walked toward the house. He saw a man walking out, followed by another man whose curly hair was pulled back.
"Blair," he cried.
Blair glanced at him, his arms full of tomatoes, and looked away. His eyes held no reaction at seeing Jim.
"Blair. Damnit," he muttered. He quickly jumped into his truck to follow. He was not going to let that man get away with Blair again.
End