A/N: Thanks to Paulina Ann (who's got excellent HB tales of her own here!), Xenitha (Batman/Robin Tale-Teller Extraordinaire), DuffyBarkley (Published Tale Teller!), Wendylouwho10, AlecTowser (Dr Who's Awesome Chronicler), Caranath (yet another excellent HB tale-teller), Leyapearl (ditto!), junemrose1, and the ever-anonymous Guest for the reviews, comments & favorites!
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The world was fire.
Something slammed into Joe's back and cracked against the wall, showering him and the children in shattered glass, burning drywall, and plaster. Everything was fire and smoke, cracking, breaking, and crumbling around him. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see — focus, he had to focus, had to keep his hold on the shields, had to shove the fire back — energy drained out of him fast and hard, taking everything he had left…
Another explosion — heat seared over his exposed skin, stealing the air from his lungs. Joe couldn't breathe, couldn't even scream.
Two small, dirty hands touched his.
Energy spiked through him, bolstering the shields and shoving back at the fire and heat…barely. Joe managed one breath, then another — God, his chest hurt.
The noise died; the fiery wind receded. The air was thick with haze and smoke, but Joe forced himself to uncurl from the huddle and fall to the side, gasping for what little air he could get.
"Joe! Joe!" Emelio and Rita tugged at him, trying to get Joe to his feet.
Joe shook his head; even that small motion hurt. "Go," he croaked. "Get out. Stairs…that way…"
The tugging didn't let up. "We can't — there's fire — Joe!"
The office door frame was aflame, the ceiling blazing and showering charred tile around them, but fresh air was blowing in — the whole outside wall was gone.
"Ángel…Joe…please," little Rita whispered.
Somehow Joe struggled to his knees, gathering both children to him as he looked around. His crutch — burnt, crumbling, useless. He could still walk somewhat without it, but…
"I can help," Emelio said. "Mamá says to hurry. She's pointing — I can help, I really can!"
Mamá…? Right now, Joe couldn't see anything beyond fire and smoke and two small scared faces, hands tugging at him. With a shallow, aching breath that spasmed into coughing, Joe gripped Emelio's shoulder, braced himself to his feet. But Joe's head spun; he couldn't catch his breath. Coughing, choking, he staggered forward, nearly fell, caught his balance against Emelio's shoulder.
"Move," Joe croaked. "Move."
He pushed at the children and staggered forward, leaning heavily on Emelio's shoulder for balance. One step, then another, ducking through the door…
The corridor was ablaze.
"That way!" Emelio pulled on Joe's arm. "Mamá says that way!"
That way was filled with blazing fire and thick smoke — both children were crouched low to the ground, and Joe felt another small spike of energy flow through him from…Emelio?
It didn't matter. Joe took it, shoved it with the last of his own energy, and flung it down the corridor. The flames wavered and died along the near wall, a small cessation. Enough for the kids. Enough to save them. All that mattered.
But, coughing and choking, Emelio and little Rita pulled at Joe again, insisting he get up, and it was plain they weren't moving until Joe did. Somehow Joe made it back to his feet and lurched down that small path through the flames, clutching Emelio's shoulder tight for balance as little Rita kept tugging and pulling, even as Joe stumbled over and over into the charred, smoking wall…
A metal door loomed in front of his face. Joe pushed it open and fell through onto the concrete landing of the stairs, Rita and Emelio right with him.
Hands were on him, hands covered in rough gloves. Muffled voices shouted in alarm, and Joe looked up into a dark goggled helmet topped by an SFFD badge —
Then he passed out.
# # #
Frank wasn't in the penthouse. He wasn't anywhere he recognized. Sun poured in through the windows; sweating from the heat of the summer day, he wiped at his forehead. Fog swirled around him, the haze engulfing him, the air, the sun…
"Get away from my Greata."
A middle-aged man, dark-haired and in a tailored suit, hair combed back and oiled in the style of the '40s — he glared at Frank, just out of reach.
"I won't warn you again, movie-boy. That is my woman. Not yours. You are interfering between a man and his wife."
There was something in Frank's hands, something hard and metallic — he couldn't tell what. The haze thickened, swirling up from the floor to choke him, cutting off his air, encircling his throat…but then, clear and angry —
"I'm not your anything!" A woman's voice behind him…familiar…loved…
"But you are," the man said. "You are my dear, dear Greata. And we'll be together, forever…"
Metal. Frank was holding metal. His hands recognized the feel: a gun, cocked and ready to fire. Someone pressed behind him —
— Nancy.
Frank focused on Nancy, on the feel of her against his back, her hand gripping his shoulder…and under the fog — smoke — he could see Rathbone, clutching his side and glaring at Frank.
"A tough nut to crack, eh?" Rathbone rasped. "What's wrong, movie-boy? Not man enough to shoot?"
If only this crackpot knew. But Frank didn't want to fire. He didn't want to kill an unarmed old man. But…
Rathbone smiled thinly. "Let's find out what kind of man you are, then — what kind of man my Greata thinks can replace me…"
The nightmare slammed down, no warning, no mercy.
…stripped and bound against the cold stone…garden shears pressed gently against his finger…
Frank gasped, stepping back…then stopped himself. Sweat trickled down his face; his eyes stung. He shook his head, trying to clear the haze, aware of Nancy behind him. He would not run. He would leave her to him. He would not.
…the razor blade sliced into his arm, his blood running into a waiting cup.
No. This wasn't real. It was the past. It was over. Shaking his head again, Frank grit his teeth. They had to move, they had to get out — the door, over there…
He stood in front of a metal door.
Screaming, someone was screaming — his baby brother…Joe…the overwhelming stink of formaldehyde and rotting meat…an echoing, agonized cry choked off into silence…
Frank touched the door knob…no, he had to get help, he had to…he…
…ran…
"Yes, you know all about running, don't you?" someone sneered.
…the living room stank of formaldehyde…the coffin, there, against the window. Mom, the bright red roses of her dress, a rosary wrapped around her clasped hands.
Hands pushed him forward, held him up. Mom's eyes, her mouth. He could see the tiny stitches sealing her lips, trapping her — she was alive, she was just sleeping, and they were — they were —
Screaming, he fought those hands…
His hands clenched tight around the gun. He would not run.
But he couldn't move. Paralyzed, Frank stared down the gun barrel, at the old face in front of him…
…staring at his brother, held to his feet by a madman and barely alive, a jagged saw-blade pressed against his throat and blood pooling on the concrete under his feet…
He couldn't pull the trigger.
…Joe, blood-spattered, battered, looking up at the barrel of a gun aimed at his face, the gun Frank held…
…black eyes…
"Wrong answer, Rathbone," Frank whispered, and fired.
Then metal thwacked into flesh in a solid thump, Rathbone cried out…followed by a muffled, thudding boom somewhere below that shook the building.
The nightmare vanished. Rathbone was on the floor, bent over his stomach, gasping; Nancy stood over him, the metal bar in her hands. Shaking, Frank sagged back against the wall.
"Next time, Mr. Manly Hero, take your own advice." Nancy walked over to shove the quartz back into Frank's hand. "Now...can we get out of here?"
"How…?"
"I can pick a bar back up with the best of them. And I got my necklace out of the trash…I mean…" Nancy looked away. "Never mind. Can your manly self unlock that door, please? Or at least give me the keys back and I can see if my dainty feminine hands can manage it?"
The smoke haze now filled the room, thick and choking — the room was growing hot — fire. Building. Inferno. Right.
With another gasping cry, Rathbone scrabbled to his feet and staggered towards the other rooms.
"You missed," Nancy said clinically.
She sounded a lot calmer than Frank felt at the moment. "He wasn't worth the bullet," Frank said.
Making sure the safety was on, Frank shoved the gun through his belt, then fumbled with the keys and the padlock until one finally clicked and the padlock opened: stairs, going up to a metal door…
…which was welded shut.
Jaw clenched, Frank held back all the words he wanted to spit. Losing his cool would not help. They both had to stay calm. They had to figure something out, anything.
"God, the man's paranoid," Nancy breathed.
"Any other stairs? Anywhere?"
"I couldn't exactly search!"
"Sorry." Frank rested his head against the metal door. Think. He pulled the gun back out. "C'mon. We search now."
Their search turned up nothing — no stairs, no other exits, not even safety ladders. The moment they got back into the main room, Frank froze, as Nancy gasped —
Flames were flaring up along the bottom edges of the wall, and the floor was smoking visibly and turning dark.
"We're trapped," Nancy breathed; she'd grabbed cloth napkins and soaked them in bottled water from the fridge. She'd tied one over her mouth and nose and had handed the other to Frank. It helped, some. But now Nancy held up a quartz pendant. Frank recognized it: the necklace she'd been wearing when she was grabbed. "These things — don't suppose they block fire?"
"Doubt it." Breaking the windows — that'd just bring the fire up faster, and they didn't have any means to climb down fifty-two floors of burning building. Stairs welded shut. No exits…the firefighters probably weren't even aware anyone was up here…
No…wait…there was something!
Frank and Nancy had backed up against the elevator. Now Frank looked at it — only way, only chance — and then started working his hands into the crack of the doors, struggling to force them open. "Get something that we can use to pry these open!"
"Like this?" Nancy said dryly, and wedged the door bar into the crack. Together they pried, pulled, and prayed. "The shaft'll act like a chimney, you know that."
There. Just a slight give. Just a bit more… "But if there's a ladder…for maintenance crews…"
The doors released; he and Nancy pushed them back. Frank breathed a frustrated sigh: no ladder. Was anything about this penthouse designed right?
"Strike two," Nancy said, looking up the elevator shaft…then she looked down.
The elevator car hadn't made it to the next floor. Faint cries for help, over the sound of roaring flames below, metal cracking and breaking…and a very distinctive smell, melting plastic, charred wood, and…and…
"Good God," Nancy whispered.
Frank had encountered too much horror in New Orleans…but right now, he swallowed, and swallowed again, and forced his attention back to the elevator shaft and the metal cables. Ridges and metal bits lined the walls, just enough for foot holds, but the cable was oily, the shaft smoke-filled. Frank held his hand out to test the heat — hot, but not boiling. The stuck elevator was probably blocking some of the heat and flames. "Any good at climbing?"
Nancy stared at him, a stare that transferred to the cables. She reached out, ran two fingers along the cable, then rubbed them with her thumb, her fingers black and shiny with oil.
"That's what I like about you, Hardy. Your charming ability to come up with an idiotic idea that's so stupidly insane, yet so logically inescapable." Nancy glanced towards the walls and smoking floor. "Not like we have a choice."
"I knew you'd see it my way."
She gave him a look. "Yeah. Hold that heroic manly thought a moment, all right?" With another glance at the floor, Nancy ran towards the back rooms, came back with dish towels and…a pair of boots.
Nancy handed the towels to Frank, then quickly laced the boots on. "I'm not doing that in bare feet, thank you. Wrap those around your hands."
"And that's what I love about you, Drew," Frank said softly. "Your ability to take my insane plan and make it feasibly survivable."
"You're going to explain." Her face pale, Nancy was now staring up the elevator shaft. "You're going to explain every last bit of all this — whatever the hell Rathbone was doing, what you and Joe are doing in that place, how you found me, everything. Even if I have to come back from the dead and haunt you for the next two centuries."
Now Frank smiled. "Deal. Ladies first."
Wrapping the towels tightly around her hands and tying the bar into the ribbon-belt of her dress, Nancy reached for the cables…then paused. "You saw Star Wars?"
Behind Frank, fire flared across the floor and crawled up the walls; small flames licked along the wooded parquet. "This isn't the time for small talk."
Then Nancy leaned in and kissed him.
For a sweet, too-short moment, her body was warm and soft against his, and Frank wanted…oh God, he wanted…
All too soon, Nancy pulled away. "For luck."
Then she grabbed the cables and swung out over the smoking, fiery pit.
