As great an episode as Sniper Zero was, it was considerably lacking in hurt Charlie. I was expecting (well, hoping) for some agony! Agony that resolves itself in a happy way, of course, but agony, angst, the whole kit and caboodle none the less! Sadly, there's only so much that can fit in one hour so I'm taking the liberty of taking a whack at fixing this problem myself. Hopefully I won't screw this up too badly.
And voila! Here is an alternate ending (a "what happened instead," if you will) to the episode Sniper Zero. Hurt and angst abounds! Slight warning for some language. Oh, and the number I give for the speed of sound is a broad estimate only.
This is only a short bit that I hastily churned out; more to come later. It's not all hurt Charlie story, I'll assure you that! I consider this somewhat of a first draft; after I complete it I will go back and re-edit each chapter to fix awkward grammar, gaps in continuity, and other silly things.
Edited 5-4-05 to change some quotes around. Thanks to Storyspindler for help with the Latin!
Disclaimer: The characters of Numb3rs are property of the Scott brothers and the creative gem of Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci. No profit is being made from this story and no copyright infringement is intended.
Et vobis, fratres,
Quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere,
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
Ideo precor.
-
And for this reason I beseech you, brothers,
because by my thought, my word, and my work I have done wrong beyond measure,
It is my fault, my fault, my greatest fault.
Thus I beg.
MEA CULPA
CHAPTER I
The unobstructed silence threw the echo of the loud ricochet back ten-fold from the hollow cavities between the buildings. The sound thus oddly distorted, it took Don Eppes several moments to comprehend the chain of events. Something in his gut suddenly screamed. Charlie. His eyes locked on the wayward mathematician meandering before of a cluster of police cars, absorbed in an equation on the clipboard at his arm. Completely oblivious. Don's stomach lurched. He had no time but to consider the worst case scenario. With his father's words ringing in his ears he called out desperately to his brother, attempting to close the space between them with a Herculean effort.
He knew from the moment his feet hit the pavement he could not reach him. Every bone in his body turned to liquid as he watched David and his brother fall together amid a shower of shattered glass.
A gunshot. The sound was all too familiar to him now. Charlie had decided that it was nothing like the sounds in the movies, but something quite distant, almost innocent. When he heard the sound again it barely registered in his already inundated mind and for a moment he had to check himself, questioning whether or not he had heard the sound with a raised eyebrow.
340.29 meters per second.
Until he suddenly felt a great and unstoppable force throw him nearly to the ground he was almost certain it was all a figment of his imagination.
Compared to that bullet, the sound traveled so slow.
Cement. So close he could see the tiny pores, smell the distinct odor of fresh concrete.
He didn't hear the bullet. He didn't feel the pain.
David's knee pushed hard against his back and instinctively Charlie gasped for breath. It took him several minutes to comprehend that the cause of his distress was not the other man's weight. This weight came from inside; a great pressure anchored in his shoulder and weaving across his back. But there was no pain. Shaking the cobwebs from his vision Charlie pushed himself to his knees. Completely oblivious.
"Charlie!"
Strange; just like that gunshot, Don's voice felt so distant.
Only when his brother's body slammed into him did Charlie suddenly feel the pain. His natural painkillers expended, the white-hot agony hit him with full force and he recoiled from his brother's very touch. Don's already frayed nerves nearly severed from his body completely as he felt the tremble in the form beneath him. Even his years of training could not tame the raw and almost primal emotion that surged through him. Nine bodies. Nine had been too many. He would not—could not—let Charlie be the tenth. Not here, not now.
He heard his father's voice.
Damnit. For the thought. For the deep stain of scarlet staining his brother's dark shirt. For the sniper now dead in the window. For the high-powered rifle now lying uselessly by his body. For the dozens of police cars. For the dozens of men that let this happen. For himself.
Charlie could feel the blood now, hot and sticky against his back; its copper-like smell was nearly overpowering. Slowly his thoughts slipped away from him as the world became edged in gray. Pain. Bullet. Blood. Sniper. Equation. Don. They had all merged together into a large and discombobulated mess of incoherent thought.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Don was so absorbed in his self-deprecation he barely heard his brother mumbling to him, one hand clutched tightly at the open front of Don's jacket.
"I'm sorry."
To Be Continued.