What Happened, Happened

by Wilton the Stormtrooper

What if the camerlengo got the ending he deserved? Slash . . . Full summary, warnings, and notes inside. EPIC XOVER WITH LOST. LIKE, MAJORLY EPIC.

Trials of the Soul: A Lost Odyssey

Title: What Happened, Happened (It's up for change. Any suggestions?)

Rating: M

Warnings: Spoilers for Lost and Angels and Demons (both book and movie.)There are ample paragraphs explaining this in great detail in the Prologue

Disclaimer:

Lost ©ABC Studios; Bad Robot Productions. Angels and Demons ©Dan Brown; Ron Howard and his Hoes. Any characters that are unrecognized are my own. Other than that, the characters/situations/places of Lost and Angels and Demons are used in this fiction for recreational purposes only.

Author's Notes- Please Read- Super Important:

The following story is a Lost/Angels and Demons crossover. I wish to forewarn you that this story will contain homosexual concepts, slash, drug use, (maybe)character death, (maybe)non-con, and just about everything and anything one could think of that is crude and intended for mature readers (all of which happen for good/explained reasons). This is a developing story, obviously, and I will be writing it as I go along with my lame life. Just to put this same old 'slashers must say' shit out there . . . no one is making you read it. I understand that people do not like certain ideas about certain things, so please do not waste both my time and yours by complaining about it via review/comment.

. . . Crossover? Wtf How can you cross over Angels andDemons with Lost? Wtf. . .

I have read a couple of crossovers in my time and they either involve ridiculous scenarios such as "crash landings on a strange planet called Earth" or "so-and-so is walking around the Jedi temple and A PORTAL OPENS UP amazingly and I am now in a strange jungle place. . ." I for one am pretty damn tired of senseless 'combinations of the fandoms because I love them both OH so much' and 'wouldn't it be funny if so-and-so were to travel to Narnia' writing. So please do not allow this farfetched idea to stop you from reading. It truly is an interesting story and really puts life into perspective, as any good Lost story should.

This story rewrites Lost and Angels and Demons if the camerlengo 'got away,' at the end of the book/movie. Many of you remember the crazy twist spoiler alert at the end of the movie, where Ewan McGregor's character admits to killing the pope for the good of the Catholic Church. For the people who read the book beforehand, however, were incredibly confused and disappointed when you saw that Ron Howard and his Hoes completely altered the plot/the camerlengo's motive for killing the pope. In the book, Carlo Ventresca is an Italian man as opposed to Patrick McKenna in the movie, an Irishman. These guys are hardly the same character, so pay a reasonable amount of attention for I have given this story's camerlengo some book-camerlengo traits and some movie-camerlengo traits (along with some of my own that will later be revealed.)

This story's camerlengo's name is Patrick McKenna because I did desire him to be Irish, not Italian (also because I have this awesome Sawyer nickname I am simply DYING to use.) In the book (this is super important) Carlo's biological father is the pope and he finds this out during one of the most strange interventions I have ever witnessed, led by the main Cardinal Saverio Mortati (Armin Mueller-Stahl's character in the film.) This is so in this story, so don't get at me whut yoo talkin about whuh I don't get it and bear with me some more. The book's camerlengo is emotionally unstable, from my memory, and does crazy shit like ripping off his clothes and screaming around cathedrals because he is prone to strange hallucinations. He killed the pope believing that the man was not celibate and broke Vatican law by sleeping with nuns or something. The cardinals tell him on that super epic night after the antimatter detonates that the pope is the camerlengo's father. In reality the pope and Patrick's mother did not conceive Patrick by means of sexual relations, but with artificial insemination. (Hey, that's Dan Brown's writing, not mine. You'll definitely recognize the fan-made ideas in this writing, though. And if any of the book information is incorrect. . . I am hereby making it correct. This is what I basically remember from the book and I do not desire to reread it [as I have read it twice] and was equally as unhappy with the ending the second time around. I am changing the ending with this story. That's the whole goddamned point of it.) The movie's camerlengo is a devious little bastard and deserved to burn in hell, and was only related to the pope through adoption. However, they both ended up killing themselves with scented-oil fire. This story's camerlengo will follow after the book-camerlengo, where he is a crazy little bastard as opposed to a devious one.

In conclusion, this story's camerlengo is Irish, his name is Patrick McKenna, and he killed his biological father unknowingly, thinking that the pope was a terrible sinner-bad-man. He uses the Illuminati and antimatter diversion to fuel is plan on ridding/punish the pope when in reality, the pope did nothing wrong. He hires the hassassin to kill the cardinals, but does not kill the hassassin himself. The hassassin dies as he had done in the book, pushed out of a window (or balcony, I cannot seem to remember. I read the book twice, but it was a while ago) by Robert Langdon.

Also:

I also have some minor (major) character changes (situations and experiences) for Patrick's background and you will most likely know them when they are seen. Can't give away the whole story, now, can I?

And instead of Patrick branding himself with the Illuminati Diamond, he is branded with the papacy symbol, the crossed keys. The keys symbol seemed more dynamic to me and will suit for far better future purposes than ancient words of earth, air, water, and fire.

Though Angels and Demons is semi-primarily about Robert Langdon and his badass tweed, he will not make much if any of an appearance in this story. This story is solely about camerlengo Patrick McKenna and his life story pre and post admittance to the Island: the obstacles placed before him, the people that affect him and his circumstances, and most importantly his redemption when he comes to the Island. In my philosophy, any character that abides wrongdoings or has made many mistakes in their life, under a certain set of circumstances, can redeem his or herself by having an experience on the Island of Lost.

Let me repeat myself, there might be some fucked up shit in here and I truly try not to get into great detail, unless it is required for said part of the story. This story will begin after the 'intervention' and end at the finale of Lost. The future events of this story will be put into a filter, of the like, where Patrick on the Island will drastically (or not change it at all; depends on what will or will not happen) change the outcome of the end of Lost. So, yeah it is going to be pretty damn long, epic even. And most likely, I will never have a douchey entry where it says "Sorry folks, I have decided to do something else with my life. DISCONTINUED! RAAAHH" because this story kinda-sorta means a lot to me and this idea has the capacity to consume my thoughts for extended periods of time.

This is not a pity-me plea, but this is one of my first fictions written and my first fiction posted on any website. So do let me in on any writer's advice. I'd gladly take some, for I am but a lowly sophomore in high school. I have no idea what level I am on, and if I suck, you should tell me. This won't keep me from writing ever again forever and ever and ever, but will let me know that "I have some studying to do."

Still there? Good. Good men. Read the damn story, please. Please. The beginning is ghey, but whateves

. . . I should come up with a better title . . . hmm . . .

Prologue

I was wrong.

I was wrong!

I have gone mad! What have I done! He was not the sinner, I am! I am a murderer! Wha-what happens now! It shall not be this way, no! It cannot end like this! I murdered my father, the Vicar of Christ. The Catholics leader, a visionary, the most honorable man I know. I killed my own father!

Camerlengo Patrick McKenna vaguely noted the dark look in the cardinals' eyes, their expressions full of a mixture between pity, disbelief, and hatred. After Cardinal Mortati told Patrick of the errors of his ways, how he murdered the pope under false pretenses, Patrick's mind undid into a panic. I cannot go where they want me to go. This is not God's will, I know of this! I feel it in my heart; Father told me that the voice in your heart was the voice of God. I feel the truth! With no grace at all, Patrick let out a crazed wail and darted out through the doors of conclave and to the main set of stairs, hand skipping feverishly along the rail as he went down from step to step. It's over. I'll be executed, or worse. I cannot handle this; this is ―I must ―My ―I- I have to go. The six agents, a combination of Swiss Guard and Vatican Police, walked swiftly yet patiently out of conclave and after the priest, confident that they will catch him in time. Chartrand spoke orders to the other agents in his native tongue of German.

"Follow that bastard. Do not let him get away," he said coolly, confidently.

Patrick panted and flinched when heavy footfalls and any other quick movement disturbed his fresh, self-inflicted burns. The tender skin was ripping and tearing as he jogged down into halls and doorways towards his destination. One could argue that a man in his condition was not sane enough to be making quick decisions as opposed to rash ones, but a force seemed to guide the priest through the complicated sets of rooms. It was as if this deity was not controlling him, but guiding him to his destination, 'the one way portal' in the pope's chambers. Patrick felt it in his very bones that if he were to ride this wave, he would escape and fulfill his purpose. One could also argue that Patrick is not in a condition where he could contemplate his 'purpose,' for he has caused the death of too many to count and set many more in harm's way, and is finally recognizing his wrongdoings. But the camerlengo's mind and heart were filled with the most pure faith he has ever experienced, giving the unexplained force a conduit to his soul.

Left. Right. Right. Left. Right. Down the hall, the camerlengo could hear the ones who bid his arrest. Left. I must escape! Right. Down. Down and then to the right.

With wild eyes, lids wide open enough to display the entire iris, the priest sprinted down with an adrenaline fueled high and through the final set of doors. He could clearly hear Chartrand's barked orders to stop and surrender, but ignored his commands for he had a greater purpose. I must leave. I must go. I must escape! He locked the doors with a quick flip of a latch shutting out the now pounding fists.

"Open this door! You are under arrest!" This time Chartrand spoke in accented English but his tone was equally as dire. Somewhere in the back of Patrick's mind, he noted this, but was too caught up in commencing keys and knobs of the Senza Chiave, or 'One Way Portal' to give the urgency of the situation any real thought. Patrick fumbled with the turning latches and finally got the door to budge. Just as he shut the door behind him, the Chartrand and his men disrupted the quiet setting of the pope's offices with a unit of police-grade explosives that shattered the wooden latches of the exterior set of doors. Busting in, Chartrand coughed at the slowly clearing dust and smoke. "Through that door!" he choked out. His weak lungs had to wade out this unrelenting cough due to his many years of chain smoking. The other men were unaware of the 'One Way Portal's existence as Chartrand was, so they literally had no clue what he was talking about.

"Through where? There are no other doors, lieutenant!"

Chartrand was still hacking away and flailing his arm to a seemingly blank looking wall. "Th-" Cough "That d-door!" He finally gathered his strength and stood from his pained crouch to angrily shove his naïve colleagues towards the secret door. He grasped the knobs, watching impatiently as the other agents scrambles to mimic his actions. "Turn, dammit! He's getting away!"

"Hello?" Patrick stumbled out into the moonlit church, otherwise known as the Church of Illumination. He wondered where that man he hired to kill off the four preferiti was off to. Hired to kill? Honestly? Was I mad? Patrick was briefly, yet quite seriously, contemplating his sanity. I've got to do something. Did he not have a car? Where is that man? Why can I not remember his name? Patrick was definitely questioning his own sanity, when he heard from the distance that Chartrand figured out how to open the pope's secret door and was heading through the series of tunnels leading from the roof's skywalk. With another crazed wail, Patrick scrambled his wild eyes for some sort of weapon, when he spotted the chest of ancient Illuminati brands he uncovered not too long ago. He had a small moment of stillness and peace when he reached for the fire brand and examined the charred plate. The sounds came quicker and louder and Patrick resolved to use it when the time came to be. He darted out of the church and to the hidden passageway in the crevice of the east wall. Momentarily losing his already unsteady footing, he tripped and smashed his knee against one of the jutting out walls of the exit tunnel adjacent to the exit way. "Shit!" he cursed like a sinner, and made his way out of the dark corridor and into the lot. About twenty meters down the road, That van!

Patrick leapt towards the dark colored van and pried at the handle, not yet realizing that there was no one in the van. "Ha! Open up! Hello?" Patrick rapped on the window, slowing to a stop when he became conscious that the van was empty. Looking around the lot for any civilians, Patrick gripped the brand and shattered the driver's seat window. He reached his bruised arm through the window hole and pulled up the lock mechanism, opened the door, climbed onto the glass covered seat, and positioned his shaking hand at the ignition when he realized he had no means of starting the van. 'Cept the keys on my―

"You there! Stop!"

Chartrand was a holy man. Raised in Germany, he was taught that God knows all, does all, and aids all who have faith. I hate to admit it, but since I am currently leading the 'catch the felon priest' operation, my faith is wavering. If this murderer gets away, I won't know what to believe in anymore. Moving hurriedly for speed rather than to conserve energy, Chartrand jogged in rhythm to his rapid heart rate. "Down there!" He and his men ran through the secret tunnels of underground Vatican City after Father McKenna. Oh, great. The tunnel branched off into two separate tunnels, leaving him to make a rash decision on which way McKenna went. This way? He made a frustrated noise."This way!" Chartrand had no idea where this tunnel led, but continued on.

The team made it out of the tunnels, praying that the priest did not escape. They severely underestimated Patrick's speed and endurance through this run. He was brutally burned by his Illuminati branding stunt, not to mention bruised and beaten when he crash landed from the helicopter that he used to save all of St. Peter's Square. There is no way in hell that I will let him get away. Guns pulled out of their holsters and positioned for attack, Chartrand and his men stormed into the secret church. "Hello?" No movement, no sound. The other agents scanned the room for any exits when they heard a muffled exclamation.

Agent Trovato, a hardworking longtime member of the Swiss Guard, held his gun at a full arm's length from his heaving chest. His ears pricked up at the sound, shouting "There!" in a nonprofessional manner to Lieutenant Chartrand and gestured with his firearm clenched in his white-knuckled grip towards a shadow hidden corner. The team headed for the wall, only to find out the dark wall was another tunnel. With a few more twists and turns, Chartrand and his men made it out into a circular lot. Chartrand was the first to spot him.

"You there! Stop!"

What? No! Patrick busted out of the door and broke out into a limped sprint away from the abandoned van. With a tight grip on the Illuminati brand, he jogged up the escalating ramp and for the streets. Chartrand and the other agents began to fire at the priest, but continued to miss as they exploded the bricks of the old stone walls. I need-I need a means of escape Patrick thought, when his wide spanned gaze landed on his answer.

The unsuspecting victim was unloading her car of large brown bags currently keeping her arms occupied. Patrick jogged up to the elderly Italian citizen, his brand positioned in his hands as one would position a baseball bat. "The keys!" he shouted in Italian and the old woman dropped her purchases with a clang. Her hands shot up in a surrendering gesture.

"Do not hurt me, please! Take them!" She returned in Italian. Patrick loosely noted the terrified cries of the woman and those of the people on the street, when he snatched the woman's keys with his shaking hands from hers.

"Thank you," he said with a smile and the woman just gaped at him as he hastily climbed into the four-door.

Chartrand was meters away and was eating up the distance fast. "You are under arrest! Stop right there!" he shouted ineffectively at the priest. Patrick slammed the door and shots began to fire again.

Come on, come on! Patrick's hands refused to stop their trembling as he fumbled with the set of keys. Finally getting the correct key to breach the ignition, the camerlengo started the car and yelped in success. His victory was short-lived when one of his pursuer's bullets shattered the rear window. Patrick put the car into gear and slammed onto the gas.

Chartrand finally rested his gun when the camerlengo pulled out of sight. No, no! This cannot be happening. He took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow. "Alright. Back to the Vatica―,"

"Signor, wait a moment!" Trovato had his eyes closed, his face tight with thought, and was mouthing something. Four, eight, fourteen . . . no, fifteen!

"Trovato, what in God's name―?"

"No, Signor, I remember the plate number!" he admitted with a hopeful smile.

"Then what is it?" Chartrand asked impatiently.

"Four-eight-fifteen!"

"Call for back up and a vehicle registration database search, now!" Chartrand ordered two other agents. His fierce gaze was drawn back to the corner of the street where the fugitive priest turned onto. I will not let you get away with this.

"Signor! The target vehicle has been spotted at the corner of Tolli and St. Paul at a stoplight," came through on Chartrand's and the two other Swiss Guard patrol car's radios from the Swiss Guard base. Chartrand cursed mentally. He's heading for the border!

The black clad suv's had a ten minute disadvantage with the priest. Chartrand was alone in his car, and the other four men were hot on his tail in their expensive vehicles. They kept their elaborate sirens and lights off in order to not give their secret pursuit away to the former camerlengo. Just when Chartrand pulled over past the blind-spot of the long street of Tolli and onto St. Paul, one of the Swiss Guard suv's sirens switched on full blast. "I see him, lieutenant!" Trovato exclaimed over the radio. As it turned out Trovato foolishly alerted the priest of their arrival.

Chartrand was outraged when he saw that the stolen car pulled through the traffic of the busy street adjacent to them, causing two accidents. "Dammit, Filipe! He's going to run! Shut that shit off!" So much for our sneak attack. Chartrand let out a frustrated sigh and switched his sirens on as well. Pulling out of his lane, the tight traffic around him slowly parted and let him and his men through. "After him!"

Patrick pulled around the corner, away from the old woman that he carjacked. Heart overbeating and head pulsing, the priest constantly checked his rearview and side mirrors for Chartrand and his men. Chartrand is doing his service to the Vatican, to God, and I am sure to feel all is forgiven. I am making his difficult job harder for seemingly selfish reasons. Those I leave behind perish at my hand a good percent of the time, albeit for a good reason. I-I am not being selfish―I may perhaps be selfless! This is God's will!

But if I am so sure I am doing the right thing, why must I continue to convince myself?

Patrick's gaze blurred over and he suddenly forgot he was driving along a busy traffic circle. The passersby honked and cursed as he swerved out of one of the circle's lanes, but Patrick's thoughts were elsewhere.

Fuck! What the hell is happening to me? This is what is supposed to happen. This is what is supposed to happen. This is what is supposed to happen. This is what is supposed to happen! God's will not mine not mine truth utter truth, I say! Fuck! As sure as I know of my faith, this has to, this must happen. God's will God's will God's will . . .

Tears were streaming down his face when he came back to reality. He found himself safely parked at the side of a completely different street, one he has seen before, but doesn't remember how he got there. Tolli? Down here? Am I having blackouts? Patrick pulled himself together and prayed that his ―What was this? A panic attack? ― panic attack hadn't taken too much time out of his getaway. He pulled out from his parking space and headed onto St. Paul Ave for the border passing to Rome. How am I going to get out of this country with no papers?

His question was answered when he heard distant sirens of the Swiss Guard suv's. Thinking fast, Patrick slammed onto the gas pedal and through the parallelizing traffic afoot. A truck halted from its speeded track, making the van behind it crash into the rear. I hope no one was seriously injur―WHY? YOU COULD GO ON. NO PROBLEM THERE―ed . . . Patrick shuddered. What on Earth was that voice?

Patrick had no time at all to think about such a sinister thought spawned in his head due to the current car chase he was involved in. He sped past the next red light this time without any accidents. Patrick grabbed a quick glance in the rearview mirror, seeing that Chartrand was gaining proximity and was doing it fast. Patrick was not sure if it was his own thinking or the hand of God, but his arms made a snapping motion to the right and hurdled around an upcoming corner at eighty kilometers per hour. Now he was traveling through an even busier street, filled with people celebrating the recent miracle at St. Peter's Square. He took a shaky breath and sped forward through the crowds.

"We're gaining on him!" Chartrand shouted over the communication unit with a snarl in his breath. The priest's escape was slowed due to celebrations in the streets and those who could not make it to St. Peter's Square to witness the explosion. Trovato and the partner car were positioned a few feet behind Chartrand, flailing their sirens to clear the now panicked street. People were dodging out of the ways of Patrick, Chartrand, and his men in order to not be killed. Trovato was fixated on not hitting anyone and was focused to the point of splintered vision. He missed a point in the wild crowd almost hitting a terrified bystander and swerved suddenly, crashing through the brick wall of a shop. He was killed instantly.

Chartrand heard a huge bustle resembling the sound of a motive wrecking ball, and looked into his mirrors. A car, most likely one of his, crashed into a building because of this late-night chase. Because he only counted one more Swiss Guard issued car following him, Chartrand concluded that the wrecked car was one of theirs. A hollow feeling consumed him briefly, but he decided that the importance of this mission was far too great for bereavement.

Patrick's eyes boggled out of his head as he witness yet another car crash. One of the two remaining Swiss Guard vehicles veered sharply off the road and into a souvenir stand, splaying the products in a comical fashion. The whole ordeal still looked incredibly lethal from Patrick's point of view, so there was no time to laugh. Now with a single Swiss Guard suv tailing him to close for the priest's liking, Patrick made another speeded turn to the left.

This was one of his many mistakes of the night. What Patrick failed to realize was the one way su strada sign pointing in the direction he was coming from. He felt the impact head-on.

Chartrand didn't know what to make of the no-response reply he was receiving. When he lost the final car, Chartrand growled audibly and radioed in for back-up. It shouldn't take this long! Where is everyone? "Come in, come in!" Chartrand shouted into the communication unit.

"Si, signori?"

"Where in the hell have you been? I need back-up down in central, down by the Gates! Il camerlengo, he is getting away!" Chartrand fired a fierce look at the radio.

The young man's voice shook slightly. "We'll send―"

"And I need paramedics on 2nd street! We've got a lot of nasty accidents and many possible fatalities."

"Alright, signori. Two units and―"

"Four units, dammit, and do it right awa―!"

Chartrand was too busy barking orders at newbie Swiss Guard communicants to see the car that was uncontrollably spinning in his direction. Chartrand's arguing was barred when his head violently connected first to the window, then to the deployed airbag. The last thought before he blacked out rolled through his head with a hopeless flicker. . . I have failed . . .

Ha! He's down! Patrick smirked as witnessed the final Swiss Guard suv crash into another car. This is by no worth a mean for celebration; he chastised himself for his sinful, selfish thought and furrowed his dark brows. The current frenzied traffic surrounding Patrick had him twisting and turning at odd ends to keep himself and others from harm. A second later, Patrick was swerving from the crowds away from a young girl in order to avoid further accident. In his effort, he then crashed violently into a parked car, pedestrians fleeing towards the site. The irony of Patrick's hopeless situation was that the car he crashed into was just about the only still object on the street. On impact, a strange white blast bound with silver threads of light clouded over his vision, and for a moment he was under the impression that he was dead. This cannot be right―Patrick thought as he attempted to awaken from this strange space existing in his mind―There should be fire quarries and passages of-of sin and of pain and death!―he shouted into his panicked, but still remotely tangible, thoughts. Where is the fire? Where is all of . . . the . . . fire . . . Then there was darkness.

For what seemed like years later, Chartrand's eyes fluttered open. He was immediately hit by a wave of confusion, then one of deep disappointment when he remembered his current situation. He got away. I have failed and because of my failure, I let a murderer esca— Chartrand's eyes trained on a familiar object about ten meters away. He could see the camerlengo's getaway car through the spider web of broken glass in front of him and the panicked crowds in the foreground. The car was wedged between a parking meter and another vehicle. The rear was particularly memorable to Chartrand, mostly because of the plate numbers, but also because of the bullet holes that he and his men rounded there. The camerlengo was already trying the doo―Blast! He's alive! ―and Chartrand was wondering if it was in his power to stop him from― What in God's name―? Chartrand then physically shook his bleeding head from his musings and fidgeted with the door himself. In his haste, he forgot to unbuckle, giving the runaway camerlengo a head start.

"Ehi? Ehi?" A voice and a loud rapping on the window split into Patrick's mind bank and violently jerked him awake. "Guh!" he cried as his alarm led him to smack his wrist bone with his other wrist bone, producing a cruel clash of pain. "Are you alright?" the voice now in accented English, was coming from a concerned Italian woman who unfortunately witnessed this whole ordeal. Patrick recovered from his minor hindrance and violently pushed open the door, knocking the poor woman onto her bottom. "Aye!" she exclaimed, but Patrick paid no mind to her, for his pain and exhaustion was far too great. His thoughts were still a mess, now only coming up with words that expressed his basic needs of the moment.

. . . Help me. Escape. What? Ouch. Pain. I am tired. I must go. Crazy. No, you're crazy. Wha― How― Safety. I am not safe. Ouch! Go. Leave. Flee. Free. See this? Can you see me? Repent. I must repent! Stop that noise. Believe me! Go. I am coming, okay? I said stop that fucking noise! You crazy little bitch I'll get you . . .

Patrick reflexively made his way through a nearby park, not at all aware of Chartrand limping after him fifteen meters away. Their pace was laughably slow, but due to Chartrand's severe head and side injury and Patrick's prior assault on his body by the basilica roof tiles, not to mention their mental stress, they had every right to be. Patrick was heading for a clearing, and just ahead, was a lengthy river which separated Rome from Vatican City. He was unaware of this impeccable convenience, but the entity currently spawned his heart, mind, and soul knew every stone on the floor of the bordering waters.

Patrick jogged to a thicket beneath an inappropriate placement of peaceful olive trees and made another poor judgment call when he leant on one of the trees to catch his breath. Chartrand wheezed and panted on his way up the hill, stopping fifteen meters away from the fallen priest. "Stop it Patrick!" Chartrand pulled out his gun and struggled to position it at Patrick's back. "It's over!" His gaze was deadly and full of hatred. It also never faltered when he aimed and shot.

Patrick slumped over, clutching at his new injury. The bullet grazed his calf muscle and the camerlengo cried out more in frustration than pain. Hardly a fatal shot, but still ached like a blast to the head. "Stop this. All of this! Where do you think you would go?" Chartrand growled as he limped closer to the priest, who was leaning against the olive tree. "You bastard!" He slugged Patrick in the gut, doubling him over onto the ground. "You are . . . a murderer," he hissed and Patrick went limp, lying on his stomach. Chartrand pulled the camerlengo's slack arms behind his back rougher than was necessary, pulling out the handcuffs from his back pocket, and securing them onto Patrick's wrists. He leant close to Patrick's ear and whispered slowly, "May God have mercy on your so―" Patrick cut him off when his head purposefully snapped violently into Chartrand's temple, directly into the patch of his fracture. Chartrand wailed and recoiled backward in pain as his vision fuzzed. He was still fully conscious when the camerlengo awkwardly got to his feet and made a dash for the trees. When Chartrand heard the loud splash of water, he knew it was over. Lying onto his back, his vision still clouded, Chartrand fished into his pockets for his true friends.

The cigarette box was almost empty when he picked one out. Both his lighter and vision weren't working properly, so he struggled with no coordination for the light. When he finally got it lit, he tossed the lighter in the dirt and sat back on his elbows keeping the cigarette hanging loose between his lips. After a moment, he let out a shred of hysterical laughter. He settled, and ". . . Living as servants of God," he chided humorlessly.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the sounds of sirens approaching.