Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions. This is an amateur effort with no intention of infringing copyright laws. There was no money made off the thinking, writing, and or posting of this story and it is for entertainment purposes only.
Reviews:
Gothic Spook: I was feeding off the line from Flesh Belonging where Phoebe foreshadows that she will see John again. I'm actually planning a sequel to it, what do you think?
Samantha: Meredith is to come off very 'mature', I guess, since she's not precisely 'normal'. So yes, she drinks coffee. Thank you very much!
Daydr3am3r: I hope this chapter is just as good. Enjoy!
Author's Notes:
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"Swallowed up in the sound of my screaming
Cannot cease for the fear of silent nights
Oh how I long for the deep sweet dreaming
The goddess of imaginary light…"
~Evanescence, Imaginary from the album Origin
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2: Emotions and Escape
There was a lump in Monica's throat that wouldn't go away. She was sick to her stomach as she thought about what Skinner had told her. Follmer…shot…might not make it…John could tell she was torturing herself, the way her face displayed no emotion of any kind and simply stared straight ahead.
"Monica…"
"Don't say it." She said. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"John?" She said, irritated with his persistence. "I'm fine, alright? I just want to get this over with. Honestly, it's not like I married the man." He tried to hold back a smile at that, knowing that if Monica had married Brad he would have screamed. "I'm tired, John…"
"Me too." He said.
"I want to know how we are Meredith's parents."
"Join the club." John replied, constantly looking ahead of him and into the dark night. Meredith had natural stimulants in her body or something. Monica assumed it had something with her knowledge of coffee that gave her an edge. "We really should get her off that stuff."
"Please, John. It's like smoking to her." She said, shaking her head as the red and blue lights of the crime scene flashed across her tanned skin, making the lump in her throat reappear. "Jesus."
The whole station was packed with ambulances and police cruisers, people bustling everywhere. The talking alone was deafening. John turned off the car and opened the door, stepping out with a shocked expression on his face. Monica followed, hair blowing in the night wind playfully. She couldn't be bothered.
Skinner came up to greet them, and Monica nearly vomited.
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The crime scene looked like a bloody battlefield, pools of red liquid and clumps of flesh and bone were lying on the walls and pooled on the floors. Most was from Brad, Monica knew that. The other was blood from his assailant.
The crime scene investigators placed tiny numbers near the clumps of bullet that had gone through the victims bodies. They were very precise about what they marked and what they didn't. She watched them pile around a bullet and converse about something before marking it off. They had six numbers on bullets, but she caught the last part of the conversation. There were seven gunshot wounds between the victims.
They called this information into the ambulances. The paramedics found the remaining bullet in the skull of the female victim, but couldn't remove it with the limited supplies they had.
"This was planned." Doggett stated, looking at the pile of coagulating blood on the floor of the subway station. Small yellow numbers marked off splatter and pieces of flesh that had been blasted from Follmer's body. "Apparently three agents saw the woman leave the building following Follmer. She'd been in his office asking questions too."
"Does anyone know who she is?" Monica asked, feeling sick to her stomach. Usually, blood didn't make her feel queasy, but it was the fact that this was her ex-boyfriend's blood, and that this was his death bed that made her queasy. She stood up, her leg cracking a little.
"Nope, no identity and no wallet. Just some mysterious woman." John said, standing up with his wife. He could tell she wanted to leave.
"Don't say it John."
"I wasn't going to say anything." He looked away a little.
"You're doing that thing." She said, walking off. John groaned.
"What thing?"
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The ambulance was speeding. It could do nothing better. They had been relocated at the last moment and told to drive to Georgetown for assistance with the gunshot wound to her head. It didn't matter. She was already thinking.
She counted turns, the maps in her head telling her she only had a tiny amount of time left. Immediately she willed her heart to slow to a brief throb, and slipped back into oblivion as if finally stop, leaving a long hum on the heart monitor's.
They jumped into action to stop her heart attack, preparing to do CPR. While distracted, she brought herself back and listened for a brief moment, establishing where everyone was. Three, she thought, and a driver. No wait, two drivers.
She punched to her left with all the strength she had and broke the skin on the medic's stomach in a ring around where her fist had struck. The paramedic slumped on her. She tossed him off and ripped off the oxygen mask and the IV needle. With inhuman speed she thrust the IV needle into the neck of the approaching medic and grabbed a handful of syringes from the box on the shelf. The third medic came for her, but was kicked back and into the wall, dropping medical supplies over the floor of the ambulance. She ripped open two syringes and yanked off the plastic covers with her teeth, combating the one driver by slashing into his throat with the needle. The second driver had no time to react as she impaled his trachea on the second and left him twitching.
The ringing in her ears was making her eyes water, and the drugs were making her whole body ache as she moved. The bullet wound in her chest was still bleeding, and covered her torso with sticky blood. She ignored the pain, focusing on the ringing in her ears and jumped out the back of the ambulance, rolling over to the side of the street.
It struck a telephone pole before smashing into the wall of a building in a furious mass of flames. There was a loud boom as it exploded, taking all five bodies with it.
She ran her fingers along the bullet wound in her skull, biting her teeth together to subdue the pain a little. The wound was failing to heal as it usually did, and grew smaller, but the flaps of skin at the back refused to close completely.
But still, she continued to breathe. She blanked out once again.
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Monica and John were completely silent as they drove to the hospital. She didn't want to speak, too uncomfortable about the whole situation of trying not to be emotional over someone who had meant so much to her.
Meant, Monica. Past tense. He doesn't mean anything anymore.
But he had. Monica and Brad was a different relationship than Monica and John. Monica and Brad could make out in offices and have sex after expensive dinners. Monica and John could make out in closets and have sex on the kitchen floor on a whim (before Meredith anyways). Two very different Monica's, two very different feelings, and now they were coming back to bite her in the ass.
"I could drop you off at home." He offered to her protectively, seeing how this was hurting Monica. "You don't need to prove anything to me Monica."
"I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm tired, John, there's a difference between that and attached."
"I wasn't implying anything about attachment."
"Well why are so concerned?"
"You're my wife! I have a right to be concerned."
"Well I'm fine."
"Fine..."
"Fine..."
"Fin…" John never finished. He glanced at the road as the black silhouette of a human darted across it. Even though he slammed on the breaks, it was knocked down at the caves and hurled back onto the street.
"Oh shit."
The figure got up again, limping as the finished crossing the street.
"Hey!" John called.
"You okay!"
The figure didn't even turn
around. It made it to the sidewalk and
continued walking, limping slightly in the left leg.
"Jesus." Monica said, looking a slight distance ahead. John saw it too, the remnants of the ambulance hidden within a veil of cloud. Small flames were crackling on the clothing and flesh of the drivers and paramedics. He looked back at the figure, running as fast as she possibly could. He and Monica bought grabbed their firearms and took off after her.
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She looked behind her at the approaching agents. Shit, she thought. Already her mind was beating her up over her mission failure. She was sinning against everything she had worked to gain. She had been injured in the line of duty, an act which had compromised the mission greatly. She would face death before she faced the day when her mission remained incomplete.
So she turned, bleeding, unarmed, to face her pursuers.
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R&R PLEASE!