Chapter 5: The Road Less Traveled

This is the denouement. The "talkity-talk" chapter. And it took me quite a while to write, simply because there's so much motive to account for. Ugh. Ambition…out…of control…

Overall, the moral of the story is: tell your friends that you care. Even if they're not terribly emotional. Some days it can make all the difference in the world.

A big "thank you" to everyone who took time out of their busy schedules to review, and hopefully I'll have more for you to read in the near future.

The guests in the hotel murmured gently against having been told that they would have to vacate the property once more.

"This is the second fucking time! What the hell is wrong with you people!…" a man shouted at the trembling clerks before a burly security guard approached. "Is there something that I can help you with, sir?"

With all of the attention suddenly on him, the smaller man became significantly less aggressive. "I just wanted to know what was going on…"

"There's been a valve explosion in the boiler room."

Understanding ahhs echoed through the lobby.

"For your own safety, we're asking you to leave."

The crowds obediently left, streaming out into the parking lot. Very few people noticed a police car hidden behind the fire trucks, with two men talking to the handcuffed prisoner in the back seat.

"…why did you do it?"

The man whom the question was addressed to spoke slowly, thickly. To prevent the danger of his attempting to talk his way out of going to jail, he had been forcibly given a shot of Novocain. "I…needed someone, Jet. After you left, there was no one else there who cared."

"You played with people's heads because you didn't want to be alone?" Spike queried.

"You don't understand." The voice had lost its air of authority. Now it was a shadow of itself. "I dedicated my life to the ISSP, and they ran me straight into the ground. They…destroyed me. And there was no Jet there, with high moral standards to keep the place from spiraling out of control." He looked up at them, his pale, nebbish-looking face framed with a huge set of glasses. His magnified eyes begged for their empathy. "I lost my mind because of them, and they wanted nothing to do with me once I was declared 'insane'. It was like my family disowning me. Don't you understand, Jet?"

Solemnly, Jet answered, "Understand destroying people's lives? Not at all."

Roderick's face became downcast. "I…I thought…I hoped that you would. That was why I called you!" He clutched at the grill that covered the window. "Please don't let them take me, Jet! These are my brothers! You were like my father! Jet, do something!"

Jet stared out at the horizon, mute.

"Jet!" His voice became piercing in its level of frenzy. It was the voice of a child being separated forever from its security blanket. "Please! I don't want to be alone again!"

"Roderick," Jet said gently, in the voice of a parent soothing said child. "You're an adult. Adults have to do things that they absolutely despise. And a lot of the time, being an adult means being alone, whether physically, mentally, or psychologically. You have to learn to rely on yourself, and stop blaming everyone else."

The man cringed as an officer began to head towards the car. "But…then the voices come…and I don't to hear the voices…I can't sleep when I hear them…they scare me…" He muttered brokenly as the man began to prepare to leave. He reached into his hip pocket and handed Spike an authorization card. "Use this to get your reward. Thanks for catching this crackhead for us, guys."

Jet's face suddenly became stern. "Wasn't he a former officer of the ISSP?"

"Yeah," the younger man said, unconcerned. "That's what I heard. But no one there's gonna claim a loony like him."

Jet rapped on the window of the car. When it rolled down, he grabbed the sill and leaned his head down to speak. He didn't adopt that pose too often, but Spike could recall having been on the receiving end of that look, maybe twice. It had always made him feel about two inches tall. "Son, listen to me. When you get back to your HQ, you take a little time out of your day and look up 'Roderick Watson', circa 2067 – 2070, and see if you can accomplish half of what he did in twice as much time. And remember, you may not be as intelligent as he is, but you can definitely get to where he's at now."

Penitent, the officer nodded quickly before pulling away. Spike glanced at Jet, who once again was staring out at a distant point on the horizon. "What was that all about?"

Jet didn't look at him. "I'll tell you later…when I remember it all."

There was no answer to that. So Spike did the only thing that he could: placed a kiss on Jet's forehead before going back towards the mass of people still waiting near the entrance of La Maison Vert.

I emerge from the shower, clean and slightly less anxious for the first time in a day and a half. Checkout time has passed. Since we're going to be charged for a whole new night's stay, I've decided that we should just stay another night. I call Silver Stream to confirm a departure time, and place a second call to the front desk to ask about shuttle service. I am informed that we will need to be in the lobby at 3:45 a.m. to make a 6 a.m. flight. I hate jet airlines. Jet can't give me enough money to convince me to fly in one again after this hunt.

Speaking of which, where is Jet? The sky is beginning to get awfully dark. I get dressed and wander downstairs.

By the time I reach the lobby, it's pouring. And naturally, he's still outside, getting soaked. He hasn't budged from where I left him earlier. I go to the main doors and shout his name, but he doesn't hear me. I grumble a little as I go out into literal sheets of rain to get him.

"Jet," I call before grabbing his shoulder. He looks at me, face serious. But his eyes are Jet's eyes. I'm deeply relieved. "We need to go inside. There's going to be lightning striking soon."

He doesn't answer immediately, but he lets me lead him back in, drawing a few groans from the long-suffering custodian who is bearing a mop.

Once we're upstairs and in his room, we go in the bathroom so as not to ruin any of the furniture. He leans against the sink's counter, and I sit on the tub. The obvious question is then asked. "Why were you standing out there in the rain?"

He doesn't answer right away, choosing his words carefully. "When Roderick first joined the ISSP, I was partnered with him as a mentor. I liked him because he was anxious to learn everything that he possibly could about the system, and I taught him everything that I could. I guess I didn't realize that I was teaching him all of my morals as well."

I marvel at how he's managed to completely avoid my question. "Jet –"

"It wasn't fair of me to force my morals on him. I should have seen, should have known…" He stops, stares at himself at the mirror. When he begins again, his voice is soft, and remorseful. "I knew that I was respected in the ISSP, if not liked. But I was okay with standing completely alone to uphold my morals. Roderick couldn't be like that. He admired my morals, but he tried to follow my way, when he wasn't me. And when I left, he was just…there, twisting in the wind." He turns away to stare at the floor again. "When you make a conscious decision to be a whistleblower, you have to be willing to stand alone. Roderick needed the approval of others so badly. He wasn't capable of standing alone." He finally looks at me, with tormented eyes. "I could have done so much more for him, Spike. If I had known what he really needed, when he needed it…I would have done so many things differently." A sigh. "He really was like my son."

I sit there silently as he walks out of the bathroom. My questions seem a little trite at this point.

I can hear the communications link start up. Jet's talking to a colleague, asking for something. The printer attached to the computer begins to whine cheerfully.

"Spike," Jet's deep voice rumbles, "come here and look at this."

There's four pages of printed materials on the bed by now. I look at the top of the first one. 'Roderick Watson. Served in the ISSP from 2067 – 2070.' Everything following is a compilation of his accomplishments. I whistle. "He did all this in just three years?"

"He was brilliant," Jet answers. "He practically rewrote the book on hostage negotiations as we now know it. He had a knack for being able to calm down very irate people, defusing explosive situations. So far, he's still the only ISSP officer with a perfect negotiation record."

"What happened to him? Why did they tell you he was dead?"

Jet shakes his head sorrowfully. "He tried to follow my road. But it wasn't meant for him. He wasn't strong enough to stand up under petty jealousy and office politics. He became paranoid, thinking that everyone was against him, and he went insane. The ISSP no longer claims him as an officer after June 30, 2070. That was when he was admitted to Bellefleur Sanitarium."

"But he wasn't completely insane by that point, was he?"

"Not entirely. He still had a lot of his mind left when they originally took him there. But he drove himself mad by blaming fellow officers for his problems. By the time that he was able to break out – by 'convincing' a driver to take a detour – he had a pretty healthy hatred for the ISSP."

I frown, playing with my lighter. "He still wanted to be part of it, though."

Jet nods. "He couldn't understand why they were sending ISSP officers to capture him. To him, they were practically family. I'm quite sure that's the only reason he just sent them away with jumbled memories, and didn't kill them."

"But the bounty hunters –"

"Were dangerous," Jet finishes. "They were a real threat. They had to die."

We both fall silent. The printer's done. Jet looks at the last line on the paper. "'Officer reported deceased October 17, 2070.' That's the date that they sent the contingent against him."

"They disowned him."

"And killed him, essentially."

"But he wanted to see you again."

"I suppose." Jet scratches his ear. "I was one of the last people left that he had a direct tie to. And I hadn't been in the original raid, so I didn't know what he had become. Details on his condition were kept very well-guarded. He was quite an embarrassment, you see. A black sheep."

With that, Jet lapses into silence once again. I get up, leaving him alone with his thoughts, and go back into my room to think this whole thing over by myself.

A man, once in love with the idea of doing good, became twisted with bitterness and eventually went insane. Why? He didn't want to be alone.

I light a cigarette, even though the room was non-smoking, and muse. It's rather ironic, in an age of high-tech communication, it could still be so hard for people to genuinely connect. It makes me that much more grateful for what I had had to confess to Jet, even if the confession was made under duress. It's always nice to have a friend who could see me with my warts and all, and still like me.

"This room is non-smoking, Spike." A metal hand plucks my cigarette out of my mouth and crushes it. Despite the loss of my crutch, I smile. The old Jet Black is definitely back.

"I've been thinking about something."

"What's that?" My heart begins to beat a little faster.

"Roderick called me out here by waving a bounty in front of my nose. And he wanted me to come alone. In retrospect, I think that was because he wanted things to be the way they had been. When I told him that I was bringing you along, he was really upset, and I couldn't figure out why. But I think that I know why now."

I lay back to listen. He continues on. "When he and I worked together, he always told me that he had never had a real friend except for me. I think that when he knew that you were coming along with me, he thought that perhaps he was being…replaced, that I had simply moved on from the friendship that he and I had. But then…" Jet draws a pattern on the floor with the toe of his shoe. I recognize this; he does it when he's nervous. "He…began to think that we were something more, and I began to wonder if you were wanting something more. And that's why he kept tearing my memories away, so that we wouldn't be able to trust each other." He coughs out a dry little cough, another nervous habit. "He never knew a friendship like that, strong enough to make friends willing to die for one another. It made him envious."

I place my sharp chin on top of folded hands. "Are we something more, Jet?"

He takes my hands, standing me up. "I never really thought that I could move on from Alisa. And I know that a big part of you still wants to be with Julia. But if you're ready to try again, I'm willing to try, too."

I wrest one of my hands from his, letting it run down his chest, and unbutton his shirt along the way. And so, we try again.

It's only 8:30 p.m., but we're both wiped out. It's an unusual end to an unusual day.

We made love four times before Spike was too tired to continue. And then we moved into my room, because no matter how sexy musk and sweat smell during sex, after sex the stench is unbearable. So we've both showered and ordered room service, and subsequently taken up residence in my bed, which is still too short for my legs. We're lying at odd angles, watching 'Big Shot'. Of course, they're talking about Roderick Watson, the rogue ISSP officer turned criminal. The ISSP refuses to comment on the case, citing 'sensitive issues'. Spike snorts derisively. "They just want to cover their own asses."

"Always," I murmur absently. I'm running my fingers through his thick hair, wanting to draw him closer. There was no way to make up for so many months of complacency in three steamy hours, but we've got some more time together.

He grazes my cheek with those rough fingers, and we're kissing again in no time. I like Spike. I like the feverish urgency of his intimacy. I like his realistic approach: he's under no illusions that we're going to be together forever. But we can satisfy each other's short-term needs right now, and we've always got our friendship to fall back on if this doesn't work out.

Briefly, I think about Roderick, the intensity of the jealousy he must have felt, and pity him.

Spike's dragging his heels behind me as we trudge through EnE. Our luggage is on the plane already, and we're about to give the ticket agent our return flight stubs. The flight crew bustles past us, and we both see Elayne. Spike groans and tries to hide behind me. "Please, please god, let her be on another flight."

"She's on our flight," I say, trying to hide a grin. "You didn't see her on the shuttle this morning?"

"No," he mutters unhappily. "Well, as long as we don't end up with a six-hour layover, I guess it's okay."

"It's going to have to be okay," I respond as we head out to the runway. One lonely jet is waiting for us early-morning commuters. "We're pretty much stuck with her." We're herded into the cabins, and before long, we're sitting in our leather seats, being promised coffee and breakfast. Spike has once again claimed the window seat.

Elayne comes by, bearing orange juice. "You guys again! Did you have fun on your trip?"

Spike leans over me to take a glass. "Sure did. Best vacation ever."

"Vacation?" I ask wonderingly.

"Yep. Remember, we said that we were going to get away for a while and see the rest of the world?"

"Aww, that's so cute," she titters. "How long have you two been a couple?"

"In three days, it will have been two years," Spike blurts out. I've got to stop this. If it gets any more sugary, we're all going to have diabetes.

"Wow, an anniversary!" She takes off and I give him an evil look. He grins. "C'mon, play along."

Within a minute and a half, the entire flight crew, even the pilots, has surrounded our seats, and is singing to us. Spike's thoroughly enjoying it. I'm trying not to squirm too much. Am I…blushing? Oh, god. Mercifully, the song ends soon, and they return to their stations.

Everyone in the whole damned plane is staring at us now.

The pilot begins his pre-flight address, and people gradually begin to mind their own business. Spike pokes me apologetically. "Sorry. I guess I'm just a cheesy boyfriend at heart." He squeezes my hand, slyly, and goes back to staring out over the tarmac.

I smile to myself as I recline the seat a little. I think that I like him even better than Georgia Peach Brandy.

FIN