Summary: This story is set shortly after Follow My Footprints. Ivy's POV.
Disclaimer: I'm just a fanfiction writer. All hail the rightful owners.
Content Disclaimer: This story deals with the emotions surrounding death. It's also somewhat melodramatic. I warned you.
"There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination."
The Story of an Hour: Kate Chopin
"Are you feeling well, dear?"
"Huh?" Ivy's head snapped up. "Yeah, mom. I'm fine. Why?"
Looking over from loading the dishwasher, the parent surveyed her wan daughter. "You're pale. You're dinner's hardly touched, and you've been quiet all evening."
The younger of the redheads growled, "Well, what am I supposed to do? Dance around on the tables yelling 'Carmen's Alive'?" A significant glace at Zack accompanied the sarcasm.
"No dear." The mother almost chuckled. "That's not your style."
"Just tired." The agent responded tersely.
The soothing voice tendered. "You've had a draining day."
Testily, Ivy stated. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
"Look" The tempo of speech markedly slowed. "There's something wrong with me."
Soft eyes emphasized the mother's statement. "That's not true."
"When I got used to… Carmen being dead… I felt… relieved."
"As opposed to?" The timbre proffered neutrality.
"Heartbroken?" Ivy crescendoed. "Elated?" Frustration boiling over, Ivy threw her hands over her head and shouted. "I don't know!"
The response was intentional silence.
"I need to go beat a bag." The detective stormed down to the basement.
Zack made to follow, but their mother stopped him. "Let her go." She said quietly. "Your sister needs some time."
Alone, Ivy dragged the heavy-based martial arts equipment along the concrete floor. With an excess of wasted power, she attacked the padded symbol. Guilt ridden misery radiated from her rapidly chafing hands.
In her years as a detective, Ivy had occasionally wondered what it would be like to lose a suspect. In fact, she'd spent more than her fair share of time speculating about this particular suspect. Carmen was different after all.
Ivy had dreaded the thief's probably inevitable demise. She'd struggled, not always successfully to keep the picture out of her mind. However it had intruded on every interaction, begging the question of how Carmen could look so exultant when her actions were so self-destructive
Ivy had imagined something painfully difficult, characterized by self-contradicting emotions. The reality was shockingly different. Instead of facing the ultimate emotional ordeal, Ivy had simply stood stunned while her entire tempestuous relationship with the master thief dissipated entirely.
Ivy's knuckles began to bleed. She knew she should put gloves on, but didn't care.
The anguish that Ivy had expected to feel never materialized. Instead an almost immediate sense of purpose overshadowed sentimental sadness. There was the posthumous challenge to be dealt with, a brother and friend to comfort. She couldn't afford to break down, and thus didn't.
She'd been calm. The mind that had spent most of its life trying to decide how it felt about Carmen went to work and, astonishingly, derived an answer.
Her hands hit steadily against the bag, with poor skill. Breathing was shallow and ill-controlled.
This was no one's fault. Carmen was killed by a multitude of choices, every one self-made. Even those airmen had urged to pull out and live, but she'd been determined to die. There was nothing to feel guilty about, no blame, only sadness.
Ivy growled at the bag.
It could have been worse. They'd escaped all the horrible possible scenarios where Carmen's death had caused irreparable collateral damage. The whole affair had been quick, clean, and no detective's fault. There'd been no managed body, internal affairs investigation, or haunting last words. It was too easy.
Hands hit the target faster.
'That's it?' She'd thought because even a mountain rising up and dragging Carmen below seemed anticlimactic. 'What will I do now?' She'd wondered and the sudden onslaught of relief became clear.
Carmen's death meant a kind of freedom. Ivy's career was no longer tethered to an unsolvable problem. She could take any case, even outgrow the agency, without flouting the rules of this endless game. Ivy had refused opportunities that she'd truly wanted because of a deep conviction that if she left the game, Carmen would get hurt. Other agents wouldn't try to save her, they'd just attack. Even knowing that Carmen didn't want her help, Ivy couldn't leave. Something would go wrong; she was sure.
Yet, when the worst happened, the liberation struck Ivy powerfully. There'd be no more restless nights tossing, turning and wondering. Even if it wasn't the answer Ivy had hoped for, it was done.
Carmen's persona had always resisted explanation. However, her memory was far more malleable, ready to conform to Ivy's every understanding, no matter how judgmental or naïve. For the first time in what felt like forever, Ivy felt like she'd handled a situation correctly. Carmen's larger-than-life existence wasn't there to contradict her. Everything made sense.
When Carmen appeared atop that ridge, Ivy's self-confidence shattered.
The bag was swinging with each strike now, despite its sand filled base.
Ivy's reaction to Carmen turning up alive was shock, not joy. She felt horribly ashamed of that.
Why hadn't she reacted like the Chief, or even Zack? How could she have been so… selfish?
Had the detective been older or wiser, she might have released that she'd been feeling a different incarnation of grief. She might have known that anyone willing to take on her level of responsibility was caring, in her own prickly way. She may have understood that emotions fickle things.
However, she knew none of these things. She only knew that she'd walked painlessly through a world without Carmen Sandiego.
Screaming, Ivy toppled the bag to the floor. She struck at the fallen tower, over and over, until she couldn't even breathe anymore. Then, she rested her head on the concrete floor and cried.
Her mother looked on from the stairwell, with tears on her creased cheek.