Okay. This is my tenth story. Ten. Can you believe it? I've been around the block!
For all readers who aren't accustomed to this particular fandom, but came here 'cause you like me, (I.e. All of my Treklockians from the Shire), thank you so much, for one, but Keep calm and read on. I'm still the cray-cray Kk, and you all know my writing style from Letters (at least, I hope you do.)
For those who don't know me, and only came here because you really, really, REALLY like The Fugitive and US Marshals, Sit tight, and please be merciful! This is my first fan fiction into this fandom, and my knowledge on the movies is... Well, it probably could be better, but I think it's OK for this particular fanfic.
T. But, honestly, if you are reading this, I would normally expect you to be over 13. (I.e. PG 13 rating. I can't see a seven-year old watching US Marshals. Just saying...)
LOTS OF !SPOILERS!
And if anyone asks, yes, this is yet another "Noah survives" fic. Cut me some slack. I really liked that kid.
Okay, I've talked enough. Here we go.
Darkness. Darkness and silence. Noah looked up into the inky blackness that seemed to surround him, blanketing him in a strange but potentially welcoming cradle. The soft shadow seemed almost surreal. Something out of a story book. Something like Snow White's poisoned apple, maybe. He felt as though he could almost reach out and touch it.
Noah reached out to a cold, misty smoke that seemed to envelop his fingers. Perhaps it wasn't so deep and vast as it looked. It seemed to swirl around him, and only him. Maybe it was something that could be escaped. But he didn't want to escape it. Not yet. But maybe later.
Darkness and silence... And pain. There was definitely pain here. The crisp folding shadows seemed to be trying to mask the fire that began in his abdomen and spread throughout his chest and to his arms and legs. Noah winced. He definitely wasn't leaving. Not yet. Maybe later, though.
Noah looked around him into the convulsing shadow. He felt like he was falling. Some great distance, as well. Sure, he would still have dreams that he was falling, but never so... Real as this.
Suddenly, his back gently touched a surface that reached out to him through the darkness, the frame of a door, to be exact. With an excruciating jolt of pain he remembered where he really was. Honestly, he didn't want to remember. And not later. Not ever. Especially not when a traitorous murderer awaited him. He really didn't want to leave the darkness. Really. Not for Lorali. Not for the team. Not for... Well, maybe for Sam. Not for the rest of the whole world (who could be a real jerk sometimes, too). But then, of course, he really didn't have a choice, did he? Another spearing bolt of fire in his chest woke him fully to his state. His sorry, bloodied state sliding down the doorframe of an old man's apartment, a crimson trail in his wake. Noah involuntarily tipped his head back and his jaw dropped in a silent wail just before the shadows around his vision dissipated. Nope. He really didn't have a choice at all.
Meanwhile...
Deputy Marshal Sam Gerard looked up in the direction of the gunshot he heard. A gunshot meant one of two things. A., Royce or Newman had found the rouge agent Sheridan and were in a fight; or B., Sheridan had found them first. And please... not the second!
The shots continued while Gerard chased the sound. He could only assume that Sheridan was fleeing the scene. His mind began to reel. If Royce shot the gun first, then Sheridan would be dead. If Newman shot the gun, then Sheridan would probably still be running, no offense to Newman or his aim. If Sheridan shot the gun... Well, someone was definitely going to be dead. Because people like Sheridan and Royce didn't miss. No matter what Catherine had said. Please, he thought let it be Royce who shot!
Deputy Marshal Sam Gerard opened the door to the apartment with the gunfire only to find exactly what he did not want to see. He was at Newman's side so quickly, he was sure he could hear a sonic boom.
Noah's head tilted slightly upwards at him, and the boy's empty eyes shifted towards him with a glazed, pleading stare. Too late, Sam they seemed to announce grimly. Too late.
Sad little prologue to start things off.
What do you think? Any good? And don't worry, if this didn't cut it as T, the next chapter certainly will.
Ok. I admit it. I lied. But most of the things that I was going to adress earlier got bumped back because the computer sort of... Died suddenly. With all of my documents still on it. Isn't it wonderful? Thus, I figured I still had one little chapter's worth of creativity left over for June to make (maybe) a decent opening for a US Marshals fiction.
This is something American. And I am far more familiar with USA than UK, so... Only grammar errors to excuse for this fiction!
All rights to respective owners.
#NoahNewmanLives!
