Backstabbers: Chapter One
Disclaimer: I do not own CSI or any part of the franchise. I do however own the plot of this story, all suspects and all victims...and this can of pepsi I'm drinking while writing ;)
A/N: Hey all! It's good to be back in Miami (the fandom that is ;) This fic is strictly episode-styled and won't involve character-drama or shipping, just forensics, victims and criminals...and Horatio's sunglasses lines ;)
Also, (seeing as this is an "episode" fic) I've thought to add a list of guest stars - (which can be found on my profile) Just a thought to help your imagination see the same scenes I'm seeing =)
Enjoy guys ;)
The silent Miami night was soothing to Chris Banks, the alleyways shadows seemed completely opposite to the world of stage lights he had just exited from.
Another good gig, the crowd was insane!
Smiling through his mask of perspiration, droplets ran down his tan forehead, occasionally landing on long black lashes that hung like an umbrella over deep hazel eyes. His ears still rang from the joyous screaming from the fans, the massive speakers that nearly blew him off stage whenever he pulled a chord or sang into the microphone.
Defiantly looking forward to the St. Louis jam next week!
With his prized six string Miley – his dad's old band guitar – resting comfortably on his back, Chris walked down the lone alleyway, wondering which way lead back to the bus. The silence echoed his safe loneliness.
Security cleared these backstreets before the concert, I'm fine.
Strolling past the countless dumpsters, Chris whistled merrily. His one-night gig in Miami had been a success; the club was packed solid with screaming fans just for him – he couldn't help but smile at that thought.
If it wasn't for all the fighting, tonight would have been perfect.
Peach lips fell into a frown as Chris remembered being dragged backstage by his manager for safety, while all his bodyguards had to stop a riot from breaking out. Luckily no-one was hurt but it still put an unfortunate downer on his night.
Hard to believe a few months ago I was playing in a garage...now I've fans!
Though he loved them, adored the people who adored him, Chris knew walking out the front doors of the club would have been chaotic. His bodyguards seemed to have enough on their plate with the fight-starters and the alleyways were cleared before the show.
Plus...a little quite time was a welcome gift to Chris, a rare occurrence he never missed until he left Tampa for New York. Miami had a beautiful night sky, a velvet blanket of black, dotted with wonderful little stars and a glorious view of the moon.
Staring up at the sky, lost in its wonder, Chris didn't feel the steel pressed to his lower back before it was too late.
What the-?
Before he could react, Chris found himself on the ground, gasping out painfully as the suddenly cold night stole all his warmth. He couldn't hear a thing, not even his pained cries as his attacker kicked him over onto his back.
What-...God! Argh! What's happening?
He could feel the warm liquid drip from his back like a leaky tap, it travelled from his left kidney outwards like a filling pool to surround his shaking, pale hand.
Forcing his eyes out of the back of his head, Chris looked up, for a moment the stars seemed closer, lights flickering in front of his eyes like small, golden ballerinas.
I'm...dying?
Looking past the tiny dancers, emerald eyes penetrated the shadows and found a filmier face.
"You?" he choked out, coughs and breaths at war for his limited air supply. Before he could speak again, the face had disappeared into the Miami night.
Now he was alone. Dying at the hands of someone he thought he could trust.
How could-...how could they?
With his consciousness slipping away, his life escaping through his blood soaked back, Chris reached a trembling hand down through the growing crimson surrounding his torso.
His IPhone hit the ground with a crack, instantly gripped by the blood pool. A floating island of black in a sea of crimson.
Chris reached further though it pained him, pale fingers grasping the phone like a life-line. Shaking, he punched in a number, dragging the phone up and dropping it next to his pale, sweaty cheek.
...come on...please answer...
"911, state your emergency." A female voice spoke professionally, but to the dying young man, it was the voice of an angel.
"Hello?" the voice said, "Can you hear me? Please state your emergency."
Chris groaned in pain but forced himself to turn to the phone, his lips centimetres from the speaker.
"Hel...help...me..."
There was a brief silence before the voice spoke again. "Sir. Sir, are you hurt? Do you know where you are?"
Chris glanced around him but could only see darkness, the dancing stars had faded, the only existing light was that of his phone's cracked screen, the brightness the angel spoke through.
"Help...me..." he croaked out, feeling the dripping blood from his back count down his last minutes like a clock.
Drip, drop, tick toc...
"Sir? I'm sending a unit to your location, please stay on the line."
Wheezing desperately, Chris was going numb. The cold asphalt he laid on seemed warm – he was much, much colder. He could feel his own blood continue to pool around him, every drop taken more of his limited warmth.
His hands shook yet he didn't feel it. They were numb, he was completely numb. He couldn't feel anything other than the sharp tingles shooting through his body, the warm blood ooze from his back, the dry burn in his throat.
"Sir?" the voice said again," Sir, stay with me!"
He obliged though giving in was tempting. Chris could feel his strength fleeting with every drop, every bead of crimson life oozing warmth from his body.
Soon, there would be nothing left of him.
"Hel...hel...help..." he wheezed, coughs racking his entire broken body. Everything was fuzzy to him, his hearing, his sight. His chest ached with every breath he took.
But he forced himself to keep taking them.
"Sir!...Stay with me!"
I can't... Chris wanted to say, but he couldn't find the strength, I'm sorry...
"Sir? Sir!"
Forgive me Jason...
He knew he was fading, his time was coming to an end; his dropping blood was slowing, the ticks of a clock were numbered. Summoning his remaining strength, he seized the phone roughly, whispering his last words to the world.
"Find...that backstabbing son...of a..."
Chris' eyes drooped close, the phone fell to the ground with a crack. Laying his head back, the young dying man smiled slightly, his chest had finally stopped hurting...because his lungs had stopped working.
The tan hand fell, hitting the ground with a dead thud.
Oooh, a sinister start eh? So we have our victim and our crime...
Next chapter we get our team ;) Stay tuned ;)
- Mel out ;D