It Could Be Worse (2nd Season)
Episode 14:
Gravedigger
By Sulia Serafine
[A Protector of the Small fanfic set in an alternate universe; all credit goes to Tamora Pierce. I'm broke, so you can't sue me. Any other copyrighted things that don't belong to me in here in fact belong to other very businesslike people. Could you believe that? I guess that's why I'm broke.
BAD LANGUAGE (I. E. cursing, swearing…)! E-mail me at silverwlng@aol.com okay? And you know the drill: titles or subjects of emails are fanfiction.net, s.serafine, or icbw.
NEW! For those of you I left in the dark (so sorry, by the way), I have a new series: The Gift. It's the sequel to ICBW, but I'm running it parallel to its mother series so you, the wonderful reader, can get little tidbits of foreshadowing and the like. It only makes sense after you read episode 9 of season 2, so that's why I waited. For every three episodes of ICBW, an episode of The Gift will come out, so have fun reading! EPISODE 2 IS NOW POSTED!
I'm still accepting people into the mailing list. That means you'll be told when the next episode is posted, as well as other tidbits of information about the series whenever I put them online. ALSO: Every now and then, as a pledge, I'll send everyone bonus material, such as drawings of ICBW characters and little random facts about ICBW.
~~
After the refreshing conversation with her old sparring partner, Keladry left Neal to finish his dinner and make some of her own. He had asked her if she wanted to have dinner with him in his apartment, but Keladry also felt like looking through her Academy yearbook. So she declined.
When she entered the hall, her eyes fell upon her blond partner, exiting the elevator and heading to his own room. She decided that her good mood could be spread to others, if she tried hard enough, so Keladry waited until he came within range. She fell into step beside him.
"What the hell do you want?" he asked testily.
"Nothing. How was your day?" she asked.
He rolled his eyes. "Absolute shit. No leads on the Academy fire."
"So it's definitely arson now?"
"Yeah. There's nothing accidental about the details. It's all so precise, but there aren't any arrows pointing at anyone."
She nodded. "I see." She added, "I'm really going to miss that place."
Joren didn't respond. She threw him a sidelong glance, trying to read his thoughts. It was nearly impossible. The only feeling she could get from him was that he was in a bad mood. And that was practically omnipresent.
"Stone ?"
He stopped in the middle of the hall and glared at her. "What now?"
"You're not one of those natural detectives. It's not your field of work. Maybe if you just relax, you'd work better. See little things you missed before," Keladry suggested.
"Are you giving me advice?"
She blinked. "Well, I—"
"I don't need advice. Especially not from you," he hissed. A storm brewed in his eyes. They stared at each other, neither moving for what seemed like an eternity. Keladry couldn't help but stare. Caught in this raging storm was a little boy in a boat, trying to see through the cold rain and darkness.
Her observance ended. Keladry backed away from him, lowering her gaze to the ground thoughtfully. When he was sure that she was done speaking, Joren resumed his fevered pace toward his apartment.
Keladry sighed. "It's hard. It will always be hard."
~~
Joren spent the rest of the day sleeping. There was simply nothing else to do. He lay down on his sofa, idly running his fingers through his hair. And after staring at the ceiling with its large number of plaster clusters, he dozed off.
He awoke from time to time. When this happened, his heavy-lidded eyes glanced about him. His mind could not think of anything else he wanted to do. The day was meant for listlessness, he decided; he drifted back into unconsciousness.
It was infinitely comfortable there. Slumbering did not hurt. It did confuse him or surprise him. It was a blank void where his being went and remained unbothered. Those who were depressed slept, he once heard. Those who had no energy or vitality simply lain down and let their bodies waste.
He could really see himself living like that.
After a sufficient number of hours had passed, Joren arose and walked to his refrigerator. Because of his prolonged nap, his body would stay awake the remainder of the night. That thought didn't bother him too much. He actually felt the need to go out into the city.
Where, specifically, he did not know. But Joren would know when he got there.
Outside it was snowing. About time, Joren thought and mounted his bike. He wore an extra layer of clothing beneath his leather jacket and rode out into the night. The snow came down and covered the streets. Everywhere, blankets of white had descended upon buildings and homes. With this, the night wasn't so dim and dark anymore.
"I hate snow," he muttered while stopped at a light. He looked around him and discovered to his dismay that he'd returned home. Again.
The drugstore beneath his old apartment was still open. In fact, several men were standing in front of it, talking quietly. One of them looked up. His face contorted in a great show of fear and surprise.
Joren took off his helmet. He squinted at the stranger, trying to recognize him as well.
"I'll be damned. I think I'm seeing a ghost, fellas," the man said to the rest of his group. They followed his gaze. In moments, they had copied his expression of incredulousness.
I shouldn't have come here. He moved toward the curb and parked. Then he dismounted his bike and tucked the helmet under his arm, as was habit. The men inched closer, but remained an arm's length away. They peered at him curiously.
"I still don't believe my eyes," the first man said.
The blond biker regarded him icily. Now he knew. "Hello, Gratz."
"Holy shit! It is you!" he cried. The other men also gasped.
"We thought you died, Jack!"
"Jack! It's true! You've come back from the dead, haven't you, Jack?
Joren nodded in agreement to the many bewildered accusations. "I did."
"Five years ago?"
"No, actually, twice this summer, but if you want, you could say my spirit died five years ago," he replied cynically, though mostly morbidly. It earned him a few dark looks.
The man known as Mitchell Gratz stepped forward. He reached out and touched Joren's shoulder, still afraid that he was hallucinating. When he felt the blond man was solid and not an illusion, he breathed a sigh of relief.
"What are you doing here, man? You're supposed to be dead! That's what we heard went down that night you turned psycho."
"I what?" Joren frowned.
"Yeah!" another person said. "You took out your partner and a whole bunch of Yukishiro's guys. Supposedly, you shot yourself. Didn't you shoot yourself?"
"If I had, would I be here right now?" Joren glared daggers at the speaker. "Look, is he around here anywhere?"
"Mr. Yukishiro? He's where he's always been. Hey, Jack! Are you coming back to work with us? I mean… we don't care what happened back then. But it'd be really cool if you did come back with us," Gratz told him. He shrugged. "You're one of us, man. Always."
Joren looked down at the ground. He stuffed his free hand in his pocket, trying to act uncaring about the whole scene. As much as he'd enjoyed the camaraderie, he didn't want to be one of them. Their lives were based on deception, murder, and greed. Most importantly, their lives answered to every beck and call of a man Joren despised.
"I'll see you guys around."
After the abrupt farewell, he walked back to his motorcycle and got on. There was only one person he felt like talking to now, and didn't know why.
~~
The sound of revving engines and tires squeaking of pavement was almost like music to his ears. The adrenalin and excitement he received whenever he came here had never truly left him. He saw that now. It didn't feel wrong. After five years, it felt soothing. It was second nature.
Joren went inside the same parking garage as the first night he'd ever raced and discovered that his usual corner had remained untouched. He parked in the shadows. A few other men and women noticed him. They were mechanics or riders, and none of them had ever seen him before. Amazingly, they didn't eye him like competition, though they gazed at him with large frightened eyes like rabbits on the run.
"'Scuse me."
Joren took off his helmet. He gave the stranger a once over. A teenage boy, in racing gear… multiple ear piercings and bleached hair. How typical, Joren thought. "What?"
"You're 'im, aren't ya?" the boy asked, in a corrupted Port Legann accent which, uncorrupted, made anyone who spoke it seem sophisticated—even the pierced punk. Unfortunately, the boy didn't know how to use his accent well.
It threw Joren off. He shrugged and started to walk past. The boy jogged after him, keeping one step behind. "Go away, kid."
"T'is you! I thought it was! I mean… everyone knows the Jackal by 'is 'elmet, but I know about 'is ride, too! And you're 'im, aren't ya? Tommy told me I was out of my bleedin' mind when I pointed you out and said you were 'im," he grinned and chuckled, overcome with excitement. Joren stopped and turned around.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
The boy's expression fell downcast. "You're the Jackal, right? You're… you're legend."
Legend. "Is that what everyone thinks?" he demanded to know.
"Well, sure! Every now and then, people claimed to 'ave seen a nice pretty lil' black bike and claimed it was that famous Jack Winston who jumped off Masters Bridge five years ago, but I knew those gits were lyin'! They always do!"
Joren sighed and closed his eyes. The rumors had run wild while he was gone. He was glad he had decided to avoid this part of the city while he'd been back, but what now? If everyone knew that the 'legendary' Jack Winston was back and then saw him in his DJPF field uniform, he didn't want to know what would happen then. He opened his eyes.
"Kid, what's your name?" he asked with both hands on his hips.
The boy must have felt like he was seven feet tall. "Padraig haMinch! All o' the blokes around 'ere call me Paddy, though. You can call me whatever you fancy, Sir!"
The blond DJPF operative suspected that Paddy would have let Joren call him dipshit if he desired so. This caused him to inwardly curse and sigh again. They stood outside the parking garage now. Joren looked up to the second level, looking for the same old lights and silhouettes of executives, lawyers, and murderers.
He saw no light and no silhouettes.
"Where's Yukishiro?" he asked Paddy.
"Oh, Mr. Y walks around. No one ever sees 'im. These days it's all in-cog-ni-to," he sounded out the word as crisp as he could, still grinning from ear to ear.
"Damn it," Joren muttered. He turned to Paddy. "Can you do something for me?"
"Sure! Anything! You name it, Sir!" His enthusiasm radiated off in waves.
"First thing: make sure no one comes near my bike. Second thing: don't tell anyone I'm here, and if anyone suspects, throw him off the trail. And last…"
Paddy grinned, eyes as bright as stars in the evening sky. "Yes, Sir?"
Joren gave the boy one last searching look. He blinked and directed his gaze at the snow on the ground. "Get out of here. Race in professional arenas; get a sponsor. You won't go anywhere down here."
"But…!"
"Just do it."
The boy seemed heartbroken over something. Perhaps he had once been the type to sneak down here and watch the races when he was little. Perhaps he'd been all too eager to become a man and race with his idols and legends. Joren was sickened. There were no idols or even worthy role models in this place.
Paddy surrendered with a heavy heart. "You know what's best, Sir."
He turned heel slowly and began dragging his feet. The sight was so sad and forlorn that Joren felt pangs of guilt start to attack him. He cursed his lucky five million times over and resolved to speak to him one last time.
Joren called back to him. "Hey!"
"Yes, Sir?" The bleached head turned toward him.
"Before you go, tell me what exactly they say about me. You know, the jumping off Masters Bridge part…"
The teenage boy gladly obeyed and began the tale. According to legend, Jack Winston had shot two dozen DJPF officers for killing his best friend, Coram Smythesson, and Coram's little sister. He had been so crazy and enraged, that in the getaway, he rode his bike to Master's Bridge even though it was lifting up to let a ship pass underneath. Everyone saw him ride full speed at the gap and jump, but no one could see through the fog if he had ever landed. And that was the last of Jack Winston, the Jackal.
"You made the jump, didn't ya?" Paddy grinned.
"Never happened. It's all bull."
"What? You mean to tell me my big brother told me a bunch of poppycock? Naw!"
"It is bull. Your brother is either a liar or a drunk."
"Whoa," the boy said with awe rather than offended over the insult. He walked away from Joren appearing very dazed and confused.
Who started all of this bull? Maybe Enishi did it to cover his tracks. Maybe…
Joren had no idea what to do now. There was no hope looking for him in this crowd. If the white-haired man he looked for meant to be incognito, then he most certainly wouldn't be found unless he wanted to be. Joren decided to find a seat and watch the next line of motorcycles line up. He couldn't go back to his own bed. Restlessness kept him prisoner.
He found an overturned trashcan by the rail that separated the track from the spectator area. Some loud man was calling for bets. If Coram were here, Joren might have been able to place a decent bet because Coram knew all the riders.
If Coram were here…
"That's the problem. Reminiscing always brings regret with it."
He didn't look up. The voice was enough to confirm his suspicions. He closed his eyes and said with bitter sarcasm, "I'd ask you to sit down, but you're too far above the idea of sitting on trashcans."
"Someone's in a good mood," Enishi chuckled as he did take a seat. When Joren did choose to look, he discovered that one of Enishi's men had set out a metal folding chair beside Joren's trashcan. This actually caused Joren to sit taller than the mafia leader. It made him uncomfortable and uneasy.
He stood up and brushed himself off.
"Leaving so soon?"
"Yeah."
Enishi shrugged. "I thought you wanted to talk to me. That's why you came, isn't it?" He paused. "I didn't have anything to do with the threats sent to Chief Whiteford. And while we're at it, I also had nothing to do with your Academy burning. That was arson—don't doubt that fact. But I had no hand in it, my young Anubis."
Joren didn't speak.
"That's not all, is it?" Enishi smiled.
"What's your business with my partner? Why do you have a man watching her?"
The white haired man lifted his eyebrows. "Oh, here I was told he was doing more than just watching her."
Joren gritted his teeth. "You know what I'm talking about."
"Joren, Joren, Joren. I did this all for you."
The blond stood up and raised his fists up a little higher. "What the hell?"
Enishi regarded him with fondness of a proud father in his eyes. "You'll see. In fact, because you came to me and asked, I think that I will cease the sport with her. Other gods have played with mortals before. Many times. But this, I shall end if you wish."
"God! You make me sick sometimes," Joren spat.
"Oh, you don't have to call me a god. I know you don't like to."
"That's not what I—argh!" Joren glared at him. He stomped away, the sound of silvery laughter echoing in his mind.
~~
In the early dawn of morning, Keladry received a page from Liam. She was in the middle of breakfast (cereal, fruits, and milk—perfectly nutritious) and wondered why he would contact her so early in the morning. He knew she worked. What could he have to say that couldn't possibly wait until she was on lunch break?
He could be spontaneously romantic and just say good morning though he doesn't have to, she thought, smiling to herself. She dialed up his number and balanced the phone on her shoulder while sipping her milk. It rang once before he picked up.
"Hey, did you page me?"
"Yeah, I did. Good morning, sunshine. I hope I didn't interrupt anything."
"No. So what did you want to talk about? Can it wait until lunch?"
He paused. "Yes, it can, but I'd rather talk about it somewhere else than the Alpheus. Meet me on Roget Street, across from the Council Meeting House."
"That's on the other side of town. Why do you want to go there?" she asked, setting her glass down and taking the phone into her hand.
"I'm doing a favor for an old friend. Covering for him while he has family business to take care of."
"Oh, okay. Well, I'll see you then! Bye." Keladry waited for the return 'bye' but he never said it and hung up. She frowned and hung the phone up. Then she returned to her breakfast, trying to shake off a strange premonition dancing just out of reach.
At noon, Keladry took her break from the DJPF station and drove out to Roget Street. She never went to this part of town, though Council members of Mithros came here all the time to hold their conferences. She suspected that Roald knew the way here like the back of his hand, considering he drove his employer everywhere.
She found a parking spot beside the Council Meeting House. Then she walked to the street sign and looked around. This was Roget Street, but things were very quiet and empty. She saw a few children skipping rope down the street by a Daycare Center. A woman in a large coat was sitting on the Daycare's steps, trying to keep warm despite the snow.
Keladry didn't feel cold. It was noon, and the sun was gladly melting some of the snow though the air was still very chilly. She looked to her left and discovered a fenced off field, covered here and there with bouquets of flowers and headstones. A cemetery. A chill went up her spine.
In the distance, a man was sitting on a bench in the graveyard with a shovel leaning against him. She looked around. Liam was nowhere in sight.
Just maybe… she thought. No. Why would he be in the cemetery? He said he was covering for a friend.
Her curiosity got the better of her. She opened the gate and walked in, her feet sinking in the layer of untouched snow that had fallen during the night. Keladry placed her hands calmly in her pockets and took her time. Paranoia was the only reason she was even inside this cemetery.
When she was fifteen feet away, the man on the bench turned around. Her heart skipped a beat.
"Oh, good. You made it. Sit by me, will you?" Liam asked in his usually pleasant and smooth voice.
Keladry frowned. "What are you doing in here?"
Liam gestured to the shovel. "I'm covering for a friend, like I told you. Some poor kid died last night. This is his grave plot." He paused. "Rising racing star. Motorcycles, I believe." His finger reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "haMinch. That was his name. Hmm. Too bad that car hit him. Freak accident if I ever saw one." A shadow passed over his eyes. "Pure accident."
She hesitantly sat down beside him on the stone bench. Her first instinctive movement was to lean against him, but it didn't feel right today. She glanced around her. It was all too strange for her liking. It sent even more chills up her spine.
"What did you want to talk about?"
He turned to her, a gloved hand reaching out and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Liam let out a deep breath and shrugged. "It's not something you're going to like."
"Maybe if you just told me, I'll see if I like it or not."
"Okay, then." He took a deep breath and let it out quickly as he said the words, "I think we should stop seeing each other."
Keladry's world nearly caved in. She stared at him. His face seemed to be chiseled out of marble, unmoving and unfeeling. How many times had that pleasant pair of lips kissed her chastely on the hand? How many times had that cheek rested against her hair? The wind picked up, blowing hard against the couple seated on the bench. Keladry shivered.
She was glad her hands were still in her pockets. She did not wish for him to see them, balled up in fists and nails digging into her palms. Liam observed her, her once loving gaze now focused on the snow-covered ground and half-dug plot before them. He turned his eyes upwards to the sky, a startling bright white, devoid of color or tone.
An eternity and a day passed before Keladry finally cleared her throat and fleetingly glanced at him. "Why now? Why… why stop?"
Liam rubbed his gloved hands together. "I can't hope to explain it to you. I can't really explain it to myself. When this was to have finally happened, I wasn't supposed to feel anything. I'm afraid I do, but not enough to go against…" He trailed off, searching for the right thing to say. "Go against the ways things are," he finally finished.
"And how are things?" she asked quietly.
"Far above us. Far, far above us. I have to get back to work, Kel." He stood up and grasped the shovel handle in both hands. "It was great while it lasted."
She also arose, trying to keep her face as still as marble. "Right. Great while it lasted."
His eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Kel."
"Yeah, that makes the two of us," she muttered and started walking quickly away. She tried not to kick up the snow as she went, though she did manage to disrupt an arrangement of flowers. She muttered a sorry to the deceased and slammed the cemetery gate behind her.
After her car had sped off, Liam sat back down on the bench again, facing the gate this time. He looked down at his hands. His hands had done so many things. So many, many things. Then, he wondered what else they would have to do before his life was finally over. And he pondered whether or not those things were worth it.
~~
Daine Sarrasri exited the building across the street. She was on her way around the corner for a nice cup of coffee and a deli sandwich. Normally, she wouldn't even noticed the cemetery, but the fact that someone was actually in it that day caught her attention.
It took but one glance for her to gasp and drop her purse. She blinked her eyes rapidly, picked up her purse, and jogged around the corner before the man spotted her. The Councilwoman continued to jog all the way until she reached the deli and asked the owner to use their COMscreen.
Within moments, she was on the line with an old friend.
"Alanna! You're not going to believe this. I saw Irons!" she exclaimed fearfully into the speaker.
The Presidential Advisor's mouth dropped open. "Who?"
"Liam Irons! He's alive."
~~
Author: Uh oh. Cliffhanger. Again. Well, the episode is done. Liam and Keladry are 'done' and over before their relationship on screen began to develop (purely intentional. I didn't want anyone to actually feel too sorry for the Liam/Kel pairing. This is a K/J fic!). Joren and Enishi are never done. And Daine and Alanna are freaked. That leaves me a lot to work with.
And yes for those of you who are wondering, Paddy is dead. Trying to leave the underground racing circuit out of nowhere… after talking with a blond guy, who has everyone feeling edgy… knowing things he shouldn't… you-know-who couldn't afford to let him leave. Guess who got stuck with the dirty deed of running him over with a car. And guess who influenced the driver to finally feel guilt.
If you were wondering, Paddy's accent was inspired by a friend, Davis, and then imitated for creative purposes by Legato Bluesummers. You know him as the infamous ICBW director. Think of the worse London accent you ever heard, and that's Davis for ya. *sighs*
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the episode, though short it was, it did contain some very important things! Just one more episode before I can post the third episode of The Gift. (takes deep breath) Okay. Here I go…
Tell me what you think! E-mail is listed at the beginning of the story, or you can just review. Feedback is very appreciated!
-Sulia Serafine