Yet another goddam Incursion…

Detective Lennie Briscoe was running behind his partner-Detective Jack McCoy-running up flights of stairs because the power was out.

Besides, no one in their right mind uses an elevator in the vicinity of an Incursion...

Briscoe could feel his own breath rasping in his chest.

How does Jack do it?

He wasn't even close to winded.

Finally, on the fourth floor of the ritzy apartment...

Three bodies on the floor; tenants, bodies grasped by tentacles, slowly being dragged in…

The tear in reality was an assault on Lennie's senses. It was wrongness personified.

But, this was his third Incursion now, and Briscoe was getting used to dealing with what the tear did to his own senses.

"Try to get the tentacles to let go of the victims," Jack McCoy had ordered.

"Yeah…"

He'd had to shoot the tentacles, taking extra care not to hurt the victims. Then, once the victims were free…

"Don't touch them just yet," McCoy warned. "They could be infected."

Something Lennie didn't want to be reminded about.

You couldn't get infected by simply touching the…Incursees...or their victims. But if you had an open wound…

Like most of the really terrifying diseases, blood-to-blood, and/or saliva was instant infection.

Which is why those damned things always bite their victims…

Lennie sighed. One of those bodies on the floor was a child…

"Has anything gotten through yet?" he asked McCoy.

"Not yet," McCoy was peering intently at the large hole in space.

Abruptly, the hole widened; more than a notch.

"Back up, Lennie," McCoy commanded. "It's coming through now; and I think it's going to be larger than a breadbasket."

"Jack, your sense of humor could use some work," Lennie backed up, gun still drawn.

Something was coming through, roughly man size, and bipedal…

Then, it was through…

And it was a man, around five foot ten, with lank dark hair, and a burly build, with these…huge hands…

But there was something snaking out of that man's back, as if he were some sort of puppet on a string…

Jack McCoy flinched at the sight, backing up a pace or two, and that sent alarm pulsing through Briscoe.

"Jack?"

He backed up again, and Lennie could see he was shaking.

"Shoot the thing!" Lennie yelled.

McCoy just stood there, the blaster lowering.

One of those hands lashed out, arm stretching impossibly long, the huge hand smacking McCoy aside like swatting a fly, sending the man crashing into a wall, blaster flying from his hand.

McCoy collapsed into a crumpled heap on the floor, the blaster just a few feet away.

Briscoe stared at the sight. He couldn't even tell if McCoy was alive or not.

So who was going to deal with the Incursion?

Guess it's me…

Lennie dropped his gun, and dove for the blaster.

He came up firing, bolts of energy striking that manlike thing square in the head, and chest, and…something…yanked the thing back into The Other Side.

Minutes later, the Incursion was over, the tear in reality gone, the sun shining like normal, into the wide windows, letting all the natural light in.

Grabbing his communicator, Briscoe knelt by his unconscious partner; checking for a pulse.

You'd better not be dead…

"We have a situation!" he spoke into his communicator. "Shadow-stalker is down. I repeat, Jack McCoy is down."

What's his condition? The tinny voice on the other end responded.

"He's…breathing, but unconscious; bleeding from the nose. There are other casualties too. Two adults, one child."

Do not touch anyone, the voice on the other end commanded.

"What about Jack?" Lennie demanded. "He's my partner, dammit!"

And, if you get his blood on an open wound, you could get infected…

"I don't have any open wounds!" Lennie snarled as he clicked off his communicator.

"Fuck them…" he decided. He took off his overcoat, and draped it over his unconscious partner. He wasn't a doctor; all he could do was keep McCoy warm until the specialists arrived.

The Disposal Unit arrived minutes later; along with a Med Specialist.

The Specialist hunkered down next to Lennie Briscoe as the Disposal Unit-four men in Isolation Suits-set to work wrapping up the dead bodies.

Lennie watched as the specialist put gloves on, then lifted an eyelid, checking pupil dilation, checking his pulse and breathing.

"He's concussed," the man said. "We'll have to take him to our Manhattan Way Station."

Lennie had heard of those.

Way Stations were Federally Mandated Bases from where the experts conducted their research against Incursions, and where victims of attacks were…evaluated…where it was decided whether euthanasia was required or not.

"You are not going to put him down like a dog!" Lennie glared at the man.

"He needs medical treatment," the other man said. "And we know his medical needs far more intimately than Bellevue does."

"Then, I'm coming with you."

Oddly enough, the other man actually smiled at that.

"Finally…" he sighed. "Jack's found a partner he can trust…"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Briscoe demanded.

"All the Chicago PD were frightened of him," the other man explained. "Nobody wanted anything to do with him. Guess they were afraid of him."

"So am I, to a certain extent," Lennie admitted. "But he's my partner, and where I came up, that's supposed to mean something. We stand by our partners, be they however strange."

"That's good to hear…"

The gurney was brought up, and Jack McCoy, still wrapped up in Briscoe's overcoat, was gently laid down upon it. He didn't even stir.

"That's not good, is it?" Briscoe watched as an oxygen mask was placed over the other man's nose and mouth. "He was slammed into that wall pretty hard."

"We'll find out when we get to Base," the gurney was loaded into a specially marked ambulance, bearing a logo Briscoe had never seen before.

FIFEMTS

Federal Incursion Force Emergency Transport Service

"All these abbreviations are driving me crazy…" Lennie sighed

"You have his blaster?"

"Yeah…" the detective raised a hand. "Right here. Speaking of which, I'd better collect my gun too. I dropped it when McCoy went down."

After getting his gun, Briscoe got into the van, sitting by McCoy's side, so he would see a familiar face when he woke up.

If he woke up.


Throbbing pain…in his head…in his right shoulder…

Jack McCoy didn't want to open his eyes…

The pain was too much.

But there was worse to face if he opened his eyes, something that utterly terrified him.

He'd seen…

No! Not him! I didn't see him!

He wanted to curl up into a tight ball.

The pain lanced right through him, almost stopping his breath.

"Easy pal…"

"Lennie?" McCoy's voice came out a dusty croak.

"Yeah…It's me Jack," McCoy felt Briscoe's hand on his left shoulder.

"You got dinged up pretty bad, Jack," the Senior Detective said. "Concussion, and fractured right shoulder. So take it easy. Okay?"

Take it easy?

If only I could…

"My old man…" he whispered.

"Your old man?"

McCoy wanted to tell Briscoe. He really did. But the thought of it was just too hard to hold on to; even for someone like Jack McCoy.

He could also feel the drugs in his blood; beginning to dull the pain, beginning to drag him back down again…

So, he couldn't tell Briscoe what he had seen.

My old man…

They turned him into a monster…