DISCLAIMER: I do not own Warehouse 13 or any original characters/locations/etc. from the show. However I do lay claim to this fairly spiffy plot, I must say...
I'm back with a new short for you people! Lemme know what you think :)
Dull...
A dull drone...
That's what you hear, you suppose, as you're sitting on the cheap plastic chair.
If anyone cared to...perhaps if you had cared to ask...maybe they would have told you that his family only ever used to bring these chairs out on rare occasion. The slight crack in one of the legs and the thin layer of dust tells you that much.
Not that you really care.
Normally, you would've wiped the chair off before sitting on it. Normally, you would have stood up and asked someone else to gently wipe the dust off the back of your dark jacket, in that pleading, innocent voice of yours, perhaps even twirling a lock of your shoulder-length auburn hair, to complete the hilariously absurd look.
Someone else...
Not that you really care.
You have been staring at the white foam cup in your hands for some time now. Staring, but not focusing. The water inside the cup is still, and you continue to stare.
Still...like a reflecting pool...
Or a window revealing the depths.
Windows...revealing...
Or mirrors...reflecting...
Revealing everything...concealing everything.
One could argue that you look lost in your own world, but they would be wrong.
You know exactly where you are.
His childhood home in New Jersey.
You know exactly why there are so many people in the room you're in, and the other rooms around the house.
They're here to reminisce, to grieve, to laugh, to console.
You know exactly what you're all here for. His memorial service.
The details...
The bare details that kept you up at night...the inevitable...
...is it?...
In your own world? No.
No...
...maybe...
Maybe if you started drifting off...but the power of choice in that matter doesn't exactly belong to you anymore...
After all, you can't help but remember.
Drifting off...
The sheer horror you felt when you ran into that room in the hangar to find your best friend slumped in that chair, the colour drained from his skin.
No...
The feeling of ice as you touched his limp hand.
No...
The dominating, overwhelming pain coursing through your body.
No...
The disjointed thoughts screaming through your head.
NO!
Your grip tightens on the cup in your hand, and you feel your jaw automatically clench as you relive the experience.
The ice...so...desolate...cold..
You can't forgive the Regents for what they did to him. Imperious, cruel authority...corporeal, or allegedly celestial...it's made a particular, noticeably tragic focus towards severing the connections, the cords, with those you love the most in your life already.
Just chalk another line in the tally against your name in all 'authority'…now say nothing more...
They made him expendable, and turned him into a...pawn, to be shuffled around the chess board of life. To be sacrificed when there was no other option. Hail, the wisdom of a blind, imperious, cruel authority...
Maybe...you could have forgiven them for trying to help you bring him back. But they had fucked that up as well.
You had hope when you had your hand on the metronome, and he started drawing his breaths again. But then you had started feeling short of breath, and your vision was tunnelling.
The rising panic...the suffocating fear...
You started screaming at Jane to help you, but to no response. Maybe that was when you realised that she had no idea what to do next.
Or maybe you realised after the blinding flash erupted from the device, and you had the wind knocked out of you.
It wasn't every day that an artifact like Johann Maelzel's metronome exploded when someone was trying to use it, but that was what happened. In a matter of seconds, your breath started returning, but he was motionless again.
Trading breath and blood for each other...
Blood...
Not only did the Regents have his blood on their hands, they had destroyed any chance of fixing their mistake. And to make matters worse, they'd tried to wipe their hands and pass it to you, without so much as another word.
The best and worst ways to move on...often are...
The memories aren't even make you cry. Now, after reliving the experience every day, the predominant feeling is one of numbness...the feeling of being burned to the point where it no longer hurts...
...huh...
In your own world? Okay, maybe you are. Just a little.
You slowly shift your focus from the memories, as you notice Pete approaching the microphone on the other side of the room.
He looks so...so pensive...
Maybe...in another world...you would've marvelled at his ability to express such melancholy...
In another world...
One where he hadn't died...
"Hey, everyone," he begins, "I'd like to say a few..."
If he actually stopped there, you don't know. But it's all you care to hear anyway...anymore...
It's not long before you feel a hand on your shoulder, and it makes you look up into the kind face of his mother, who is wearing a sad smile.
She can tell that you don't feel like talking, but she gives you a gentle embrace anyway. For a moment you don't know what to do, but your aching heart compels you to return the embrace of the woman who you realise is suffering as much as you.
And probably handling it better...
You briefly hold your eyes closed...envisioning...
A warm feeling...
It's a fleeting moment...a fleeting feeling; a couple of seconds later, you let go of each other, and she walks away, still giving you the same sad smile. You watch her walk away, and you don't notice the single tear as it rolls down your cheek.
Numb...
After some time passes, you begin to notice that everyone seems to be heading to the next room.
It appears to have been an eternity since Pete stopped talking...maybe for you...
Perhaps...mere seconds for everyone else.
Hesitantly, you get up, and follow the small group, not knowing what to expect.
Your gaze falls upon a table in the middle of the room...
A litter of pictures...flowers...scraps and remnants of a life gone by...
There's that sinking feeling...your heart sinking down into your stomach...
Because the constant theme all over the table...it's him...
Perhaps your history shows that you should have seen this coming...
After all, what's a memorial service without the memory table?
You hear the choked sob that jumps up in your throat.
You hear it louder than the sweet nothings being exchanged by everyone else present…
Your hand shoots up to your mouth as you hastily turn away, blinking back tears in frustration.
A stinging feeling...the most pain you've felt all day...in quite some time...
Your attention flits back and forth...
The memories strewn throughout your mind...
The memories strewn all over that cursed table...
And that's where the wheels finally fall off.
You run out of the room...past the cheap plastic chair...the white disposable cup, it and the reflective, revealing contents lying forgotten, long since knocked over...
Out of the house, up the road, sobbing silently.
You just have to get away.
It's almost like your life...your sanity...hinges on such an escape.
Vmm-Vmm-Vmm.
The sound of your phone going off.
Vmm-Vmm-Vmm.
Angrily, you pull it out of your jacket, and hurl it over to the other side of the road. When you hear the inevitable clatter, you just keep moving.
It's not so much a case of privacy as it is a case of-
Actually, it is a case of privacy...
...yeah...
You go so far, for so long...
Oddly, it's not until you feel a soft ground underfoot, that you realise your feet are killing you.
Soft ground...
You decide to finally take in your surroundings...
White marble...flower bouquets and wreaths...well then...
"A cemetery." You mutter, in between shuddering breaths, feeling the hoarseness of your voice grating against your throat.
Under normal circumstances...you might have once found this irony amusing...
...but these are hardly normal circumstances.
No...this particular irony, in this particular context, is decidedly not amusing.
But the atmosphere is pleasant...while somewhat macabre, and melancholy as well...
...at least there's a calming influence...
...well...
The procession of upright, engraved stones feels shrouded in the weight of a story to tell...each inscription a key to unlocking a connection to someone you never knew.
Definitely an escape, despite the seemingly cosmic, sardonic nature.
Of all the stones calling to you, there is one in the distance speaking the loudest.
It draws you to it...compels you to connect...
At least this time you're prepared for what you'll most likely end up laying eyes on.
Sure enough...
Colour yourself unsurprised...
For you find yourself staring down at a fresh white stone, and it reads:
STEVEN JINKS
Trembling softly...
You lean forward, and lightly run your hand over the engraving, closing your eyes as you do so.
Memories flash through your brain. They flash quickly, too quickly for you to linger, but it matters not. You know that they're the same memories that have been stealing your focus for days and nights on end.
But this time...
For the first time...
You can feel the significance...the sheer worth of every second put into those lasting scenes...
Memories, of a world we left behind...
You know what they say about truer words...
...in this case...never spoken.
Gasping, you pull your hand away and re-open your eyes, feeling the shivering sensation coursing through your being.
You stand straight, unmoving, for some time...
...staring at the stone which bears his name...
Some time...who knows how long exactly...
You can feel the weight of the world sink in on your shoulders as you raise your hand to your mouth. Gently, you press two fingers to your lips, and place them down to rest on the top of his stone.
"T-the world is a better place, with you in it," Deep, shuddering breaths, "Well...at-at least my world is, anyway..."
The tears prick and sting as they come forth...mixing with your dark eyeliner...running down your cheeks...
"I-I'm so..." More deep breaths...
"I'm so..."
Miraculously, you manage to find your way back to the house without trouble, and the first things you notice upon your re-entry...
...are the concerned expressions on the faces of Pete and Myka.
You keep your stride as you look away from them. "Claudia..." is what you hear as you walk past them. They could take it as cold ignorance, which you suppose could be partially correct...
But, maybe, you at least hope for their sake, that they construe your silent, hasty exit from the room to the next as a blunt way of saying I'm really not in the mood.
There's a time for such an exchange..
But not now...maybe not even for a long time...
A quick turn into the next room, and you abruptly find yourself facing the very thing that sent you out mere hours ago.
This memory table...
You walk up to the table, ignoring the glances, the hushed whispers reverberating around you.
Closing your eyes, you put your hand on the table, and pick up the first framed picture your hand comes in contact with.
Open...
...a picture of him. His sister. His mother. The three of them, sitting together...big smiles.
Yet another tear falls...
...it briefly occurs to you that you must paint quite the portrait in your current state, with all the dark liner smeared on your face from crying...
...and the droplet lands on the glass encasing the picture.
But you don't bother to wipe it away...
You just feel a smile begin to slowly grace your features as you gaze upon the idyllic, framed moment.
Deep breaths again. "I'm s-sorry...
"Steve..."
You relax as you feel the weight recede from your shoulders, and you gently place the frame back onto the table.
Relaxed...but the smile falls from your face as you turn around and walk out of the room without looking back.
...straight back past Pete and Myka, now just watching you rather than trying to talk to you.
Message received...
Out the door, yet again.
Such a brief moment of rare peace and solace in the fiasco that is your life...the life of Claudia Donovan.
A moment now over, as you find yourself sitting on the stairs outside the front door, with your arms folded, your face impassive, looking up at the afternoon clouds making their way slowly above.
Only a matter of hours ago...
...though it sure feels like a lot longer...
All you could feel…was nothing. The sensation that doesn't exist. Numb.
Too numb to feel the fractures lacing your very being.
But now, even you have to admit...
You, staring up at those hazy, lazy white shapes above...
You, brushing wind-tossed strands of auburn hair out of your eyes...
You, biting your lip, shivering and trembling on those steps...
This pain.....this aching in your heart...it's undeniable...
Because now...these fractures...they're very real.
Now...it could just be a matter of how long...
A matter of how long...before you shatter.
~End~
There you have it! Short, I know, but think of it as a prologue/1st installment.
That's right. There will be a sequel to this story, but I will be writing it in a more conventional perspective (3rdp/1stp?), because this whole endeavour was largely experimental in itself, and there's no way I'm writing a whole mess of chapters in 2ndp. I have NO IDEA when I'll start posting for it, so you'll just have to "keep the faith". Hey, you can check out my first fic "Hangin' Around" in the meantime, haha.
As I said above, lemme know what you think :)
A matter of how long...before you shatter.