Jenny paced the corridors, restless. Smouldering cigarette jabbed between two fingers, she rubbed her temples and replayed events of the past few days in her mind.
Electrocuted corpses plummeting like stinking rag dolls from the sky.
The shattered, sodden remains of skulls dripping from Hawksmoor's fingers.
Shen's inhuman shriek as she tore attackers out of the air. Flesh rending in once-pacifist talons.
The Doctor grinning that goofy "I-can't-believe-what-I-can-do" grin as millions black shards, shards that had once been people, coalesced into massive oaks in downtown Los Angeles.
Short-lived triumph, soured with destruction both past and present.
The Midnighter, teeth gritted in pain, shivering in a disarray of blankets.
Angie painstakingly explaining the Carrier's infirmary facilities to yet another group of ex-Stormwatch med staff, many out of retirement and most with a tightness around their eyes that recalled the last space station's fate and reminded even Jenny of the tragedy and loss of past colleagues.
Soured with memory. Damn memory, she thought darkly.
In her almost one hundred years of life, Jenny Sparks had seen her share of horror, and had brought another share in her own wake at times. In the last few weeks, she had begun to hope that this new team of remarkable individuals might just become a true force for creating a finer world. But, as she had told Apollo only a few days ago, bad things always happened when she led teams. Well, Jenny thought wearily, now he knows what I meant, doesn't he?
More unwanted memories assailed her as she walked slowly through the Carrier's vast emptiness. No amount of pressure from her fingertips could stave away today's images.
Apollo's cradling his half-conscious partner against his chest, carrying him with tender reluctance to the waiting medicos.
The Midnighter's delirious roar as he surged out of the grip of the med techs, snarling like a caged animal, ripping arterial lines from his body in a spray of blood.
The tears in Apollo's eyes as he pinned his lover, taking not only the physical abuse but also the fevered oaths of hatred and condemnation which the struggling man hurled against him.
Jenny's lips curved downward at the corners, remembering phrases, words dreamed up out of some past nightmare, now living again in fever-induced hallucinations, and laced with the anger born of terror.
Her hand was already reaching to toggle the Medlab door when she paused, looking in through the window. Surrounded by a forest of monitors, wires, tubing, and attended by silent white-coated technicians, the Midnighter lay stretched on one of the alien exam tables, unconscious now. Good, Jenny thought, recalling the significant damage he had done in one of several hallucinatory bouts, wrecking a world of equipment and breaking a few bones among the science staff before Apollo could subdue him.
Now Apollo sat in his usual spot beside the bed. Leaning forward, his forehead resting on the edge of the table, he was a picture of complete exhaustion. His white hair was lank, his Kirlian aura nonexistent to Jenny's eyes. For a moment, she thought he was asleep, but when the door slid open, he lifted his head and turned stiffly in his seat to see her. The blue eyes that sought hers had something of the quality of a drowning man's, their color dulled to that of a storm-overwhelmed sea and shot through with streaks of tired red.
Standing behind him, Jenny put her arms around his broad shoulders with surprising gentleness. The hard muscles were cool from inactivity and lack of sunlight, and he smelled faintly of sweat. A low vibration against her chest and arms, his voice cracked when he tried to speak. "He's dying, Jenny." The words were simple, unemotional, and they hit like stones.
"I know," she responded, tightening the circle of her arms slightly. "I'm sorry, luv."
Something warm and wet splashed on the back of her hand, but Apollo's voice remained eerily steady, the voice of a man who has spent long hours alone, weighing options against hopes, accepting the general unfairness of the world. Jenny knew the feeling well. Part of her wanted to cry with him, the honest, soundless tears of expected grief. Part of her snarled and bit and struggled, refusing to acknowledge their helplessness against this internal threat.
"They're taking him off some of the drugs. He'll be suffering again soon, but…" The taint of resignation was uncharacteristic and sounded raw and unnatural in his tone. "I think he'd rather have the pain if it allows him lucidity. He wouldn't want to be out of his head when…" He stopped abruptly.
Jenny looked at the figure on the table, pale beneath the sheets. Layers of restraining straps replete with buckles strangely mimicked his usual leather garb. The Midnighter stirred uncomfortably, the tightness around his sunken eyes evidence that his pain was increasing. Uncomfortably aware there was nothing more to say, the leader of the Authority turned away and headed for the War Room and a phone to contact Jackson King. There had to be another option.
Behind her, Apollo put his head down on the table again in search of the sleep that evaded him.
[…To Be Continued…]