Chapter 3: Evil Clone--Seems Appropriate, Somehow...
Of all the many times that Jack held the difference between a man's life and death literally in his hands, it had never been quite like this. Perhaps it was pity for Abernathy's absolute trust, or maybe after all the excitement of the past fifteen minutes he suddenly felt apathetic about further violence. Or maybe he wanted a real explanation out of Abernathy; or maybe it was all three. Or none. Whatever it was, Jack suddenly found himself quite unable to pull the trigger; instead, he dropped his aim and merely watched Abernathy, puzzling over the clone's words.
Could he be right? It was certainly a possibility that everything Abby had said was true; even despite his attitude, the clone had proven nothing less than loyal, though that loyalty depended on some twisted personal code that Jack didn't have the patience to work out.
It was that same personal code that put it in his head to murder Rose. He also presented a very good target, sitting in the middle of the living room carpet and shivering like a kicked puppy, not nearly as dangerous and mysterious as he'd seemed at first. Mute submission to whatever Jack decided to do to him, as long as it wasn't too painful. Killer or no, Abby was apparently at heart still a diplomat, and a non-combatant, and wouldn't likely be able to stand up for himself much longer.
That's Abernathy for you. From impossible to pathetic in minutes. Hell. Something glittered on the carpet just beneath the couch. Nudging the SOCOM's safety back on with a thumb, Jack shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans and slunk across the carpet, toward the glittering thing. It was what he'd suspected it to be, and in better condition than he thought. He dusted the object off with the hem of his shirt before crossing the rest of the distance to Abernathy. Dropping to a crouch before his clone, Jack reached out and dropped Abby's battered glasses on his knee.
The move apparently puzzled Abernathy. He didn't immediately lose his obvious nervousness, still quivering as he picked up his glasses and set the bent frames to rights with an expert twist of his fingers. With fractured dignity, he settled them back on his nose, and glanced up. He arched one white brow in sullen inquiry as to the sudden kindness.
Jack merely smirked. "You really should wear contacts, you know."
The comment won a brittle answering smirk from Abernathy; his relief at not being immediately torn to shreds was palpable. "You must say that to all the girls. Tell me, should I be disturbed that the last person to hear that from you died a grisly death?"
"Maybe. Start running if you see any vampires."
"Ha. Sounds like most of the brainless twits I pretend to be friends with."
"Good. You should stay away from them, too."
"Awww, Jaaack! You never let me have any fun!"
"Probably because I'm the one who ends up bringing you home when you do."
"Point."
Silence fell between them for a moment, though it was an uneasy one, Jack's gaze never leaving Abernathy, Abby prodding cautiously at his broken wrist and hissing softly at the pain the movement caused. Apparently, it was up to Jack to get the conversation moving in the right direction again. He sighed. "You killed Rose."
"...You must've hit your head against the wall much harder than I thought back there. That's only, what--the third time you've said that? Is it really that shocking?"
One corner of Jack's mouth twitched, but he refused to be baited. There just wasn't enough emotion left in him to respond to Abby's jibes. "Why?"
"I told you. The Patriots gave her a kill order before they turned her loose. If I know them at all, it was likely the same order they gave me." The clone's troubled pink gaze turned inward for a moment, in reflection. "...And Ocelot, for that matter, though I daresay the old fart's so wrapped up in his own sadism that he 'forgets' about that kind of thing when there's a good torturing to be had by all."
For some reason, probably paranoia along these exact lines for the past six months, Jack was not at all surprised by this revelation. "And what did you do?"
"I most assiduously did not kill you. Wait--is that not obvious? Shall I conscientiously point out how alive, and, ah--" Abby's good hand stole furtively toward his ribs, and he winced slightly, "--kicking you are?"
The adrenaline kick was ebbing out of Jack's system, even artificially sustained by his nanites as it was. In its wake, it left the beginnings of a migraine on top of the rest of his aches and pains. "I mean with R...with her." He jerked his head in Rose's direction. Somehow, not using her name distanced him even further from the emotional tumult of before. Which was just fine with him.
"Oh. It was...really more of an argument, truth be told, before it turned violent. Ah...I suppose you've already surmised I've not the balls to actually kill someone in cold blood; the whole affair was almost self-defense." Abernathy broke off, and then giggled again in weak hysteria. "Fancy that. I almost wanted to be a cold-blooded murderer, just like you, except I think the guilt would kill me if I didn't have an excuse for it."
"So should I thank the Patriots you still have some kind of conscience left?" was Jack's dull reply. Even without Abernathy sniping at him, it took too much energy to keep the clone on the right track long enough to pry answers out of him.
"Mm." Abby subsided briefly, cradling his wrist, his eyes downcast. "I suppose. They would have bred it out of me if they could, I imagine."
"Huh."
Silence again. Jack started abruptly as he found himself in a partial doze; Abernathy, too, seemed to have drifted off--until he spoke again, still not looking at anything in particular.
"I imagine you'll want all the gory details, done up right proper like a military report. I forget how those begin, so I'll do my best without the boilerplate to guide me." He took a deep breath and let it out again in a very tired-sounding sigh; Jack simply waited, thoughts drifting.
"I'd...expected something of the sort for the longest time; after all, the orders I was given made it abundantly clear that even if there would not necessarily be instant repercussions for my disobedience, they wouldn't be at all disagreeable with forcing matters along if one of us didn't act swiftly enough for them. There was the hint, too, that I--both of us, her and I--would be involved in whatever little 'accident' they decided to plan for you. I'm sure they also knew that, threat or no, I wouldn't carry out that particular piece of offal, and all their 'hopes' in seeing you done away with quietly rested on her actions."
It was so damn Byzantine that Jack's nascent migraine took the opportunity to blossom into the real thing. Apparently, things could be so twisted and complex that the mere mention of them could make your head hurt..."Go on," he prompted, softly, as Abby hesitated.
"Right, then. Despite all their warnings to the contrary, apparently they were willing to be patient and wait for her to scheme up some little domestic homicide on her own time. I imagine she was waiting for you to acquiesce to setting an actual marriage date--as deluded as she was--so she could play at being a happy little housewife for you before she put a knife in your back. Or maybe it was love that did it; even for all I am sure she did mean it when she said she loved you, I'm not sure it was that and not her own little fantasies that prevented her from acting at once. Maybe she wanted to wait until the baby was born, so she didn't endanger it if you proved...ur...less-than-willing to die as per your scripted role."
Jack scrubbed at his right temple with a thumb, nodding wearily. Even if he had trusted her, that struck him as quite like Rose and her schemes of their future domestic happiness. Funny that the most he'd thought he had to worry about was her conniving him into marriage before he was quite ready. He wished he dared leave Abby alone long enough to find some painkillers.
Noting his progenitor's obvious discomfort, the clone quirked his mouth in an unhappy smile. "Migraine?"
"Mhm." Was it clockwise or counterclockwise circles that worked best for this kind of thing? Rose would have known; but, oops, she was dead. The frightening thing was that it seemed like a better idea the longer Jack listened to Abernathy.
"I'd thought as much. I get them, you get them--familial curse, as it were. I'll make this short." The clone wavered visibly, murmuring a stream of curses under his breath, and amended: "Very short.
"So, Rose. Come to think, after that nasty miscarriage business under Ocelot's manhandling, I almost begin to think it might've been postpartum depression--not that I'm one to know anything about it--that pushed her right over the edge. And, with her baby dead, that was one less hook in you...ah. Sorry. I begin to ramble again."
Jack waved a hand in acquiescence; rambling was an unfortunate part of the package deal that he'd gotten by accepting the clone--however reluctantly--as a part of his family. Returned to trying to reduce the headache to a manageable level, while still listening to the disjointed narrative.
Cloth squeaked against leather as Abby shifted his weight again, apparently in as much discomfort as Jack was. His words were becoming slightly more disjointed as he spoke, broken up by the occasional gasp of pain. "--Whatever the reason, she seemed to have chosen today to get some of hers back. --Fortunate that I happened to actually want to be home today, mm? --She'd just come home, and I was lurking around the kitchen or some damn fool thing like that when she promptly sat down in the middle of the hallway and started into one of those little...crying...jag things she's been going off onto. I, ah--went to..." His eyes glazed slightly as he stared at some point on the carpet, fishing for words.
"...Comfort her?" Jack supplied, wearily. "Wait. Torment her, knowing you." The massage idea was definitely not working. As if to spite him, the migraine was actually becoming worse. Getting up to find a bottle of codeine meant leaving Abernathy to his own devices, with abundant evidence that that was a particularly dangerous thing to do. On the other hand--
"You wound me," Abernathy interrupted Jack's musings, voice deadpan, and mimed taking a heart-thrust. Or tried earnestly; he made an earnest effort to raise his right hand and flinched, dropping it back to his lap. Repeated the gesture with the opposite hand, and continued: "See how I bleed--oh, damn."
Apparently, he did bleed, and copiously. He pulled his left hand back from his shoulder, red-stained, and gave Jack a hopeless look. "--As you can see, I didn't get away entirely unscathed. Girl was good with a gun, you...have to give her that."
That was quite enough. Jack was sick of the headache, sick of Abernathy's tangled clots of words that he tried to pass off as sentences, and certain the clone was scared enough to sit there and bleed to death if Jack didn't do something to get him moving. Worse, someone was bound to have heard the noise they had been making and come to investigate. The promise of a possible scuffle in the near future served to drag Jack's thoughts right round to the present. They'd wasted enough time as it was. "Damn straight. Now get up; you can tell me the rest later."
He uncurled from his crouch, thoughts already racing a step or two ahead. They needed to get to a hospital, preferably one out of Patriot control. That thought made him laugh humorlessly; where was there anything in the country out of Patriot control?
The laughter startled Abernathy. He looked up at his progenitor sharply; the old touch of fear making its way back into his eyes. "What, planning to beat it out of me? Or is this some kind of...truce?"
There really wasn't any time for this. Jack pulled the gun out of his pocket, took the safety back off, and pointed it at Abernathy's forehead. "No. I'm trying to decide if what you've got to say is interesting enough to keep me from killing you and leaving both your bodies for the police. Now move."
Where reason didn't work, threats still did. Abernathy moved as bidden, getting to his feet and swaying a moment with disorientation. He opened his mouth, as if to protest, only to have Jack press the gun square against his chest. "...What do you want me to do, Drummerboy?"
That was better. "Get whatever you need for the night. Just," he added, as a calculating gleam crept into those pink eyes, "essentials, dammit. We need to travel light."
"On it, oh lord and master." Abernathy saluted mockingly with his left hand, and immediately disappeared down the hall.
Runs fast for a wounded guy, Jack thought, facetiously, and relaxed somewhat. He glanced down at the gun in his hand, taken with a sudden wave of revulsion. The desire to throw the murder weapon away was intense...but the rational part of his mind checked it immediately, pointing out that the disgust was purely psychic and he would need to protect himself in the near future. It didn't specify whether or not that protection would be needed against Patriot agents or Abernathy. It hardly mattered.
Time to straighten things up. Setting the gun down on the couch, Jack stepped lightly over the tumbled furniture to where Rose's inert form still lay. I'm sorry this had to happen, Rose. I suppose I really did end up hurting you by trying to protect myself. He reached down, touching two fingers lightly to her dead lips by way of sealing his contrition.
All the apologies in the world wouldn't make it right, though. And long goodbyes gave the enemy time to aim. He had to make this look good; enough that anyone who came poking around the apartment wouldn't immediately think murder had been committed. Straightening, he spotted it over near the patio doors; kicked there during the scuffle, most likely. Now, it was only a matter of getting another clip for it. He threaded his way back through the wreckage of the room and reached down to grab the gun.
"Yo, Drummerboy."
Jack jerked upright again, throwing an irritated glance back over his shoulder at his clone. "What?"
Abernathy smirked from his spot in the hallway, where he stood with his laptop's satchel slung over his good shoulder, daypack clutched by the straps in his left hand. Apparently that was his idea of light. "You're trying to fake a little suicide, I assume."
"Yeah. And?"
"--Do it right, will you? You were about to put your fingerprints all over that nice clean gun. That's one of the first things they check, you know. And then I'd imagine you'd put in a full clip with the wrong ammunition and--"
"Oh, so they taught you forensics, too?" he snapped back, irritated by the other man's superior tone.
"Of course not. I watch CSI." Abby smiled engagingly at Jack's sudden black look. "You--go do something. Go pack or whatever you want; I'll do this." He flicked a hand at Jack, already starting toward his progenitor and the gun in question.
A sudden, glorious mental image of shoving Abby face-first through the patio door crossed Jack's mind. He promptly squashed it. "Like hell I'm going to leave you alone with a gun."
The clone stopped short, expression aggrieved. "What? You think that I'm going to catch any less hell for this if we're caught? What does it profit me to add another murder to this one?"
"Last I checked, you don't even exist as far as anyone's records are concerned," Jack rejoined, tone dark. "And how convenient for you if the whole thing ends up looking like a murder-suicide, huh? We have the same fingerprints, after all--it wouldn't be that difficult for you, would it?"
Something about these words seemed to splinter Abernathy's already-fragile resolve. His gaze dropped; he slunk over to an overturned chair and tipped it upright. Arranging his two bags around its legs as best he could with one arm, he sat down with injured dignity and without raising his eyes from the carpet. "...Fine. Whatever. Go...do...whatever you need to; I suppose I'll leave it to you to come up with some way to extemporize a solution to all this."
That was likely as much of a concession from Abernathy as Jack was going to get; and he hardly cared. "Good. Stay here and don't do anything until I get back." He paused, then added nastily: "It'll lessen your chances of bleeding to death."
A grunt met Jack's words; he merely smiled thinly and reclaimed the two pistols. There was still plenty to do, and now on the short timeframe before Abernathy lost what little remaining sanity he had. Money, extra ammo, his Skull Suit, the sword--they should all be in one of the dressers somewhere, provided Rosemary hadn't gone and switched them all again. Another little quirk of her personality he supposed he'd begin to miss, eventually...
It was going to be one hell of a Thursday afternoon.


Contents of this document are © 2002 Kim Kondratieff.