Reviews
Samantha: Don't worry about Meredith. You'll see why when you read this chapter.
Gothic Spook: I'm sorry your review didn't turn up! Meredith and John will be okie-dokie, just read and find out!
Author's Notes: I apologize for the length and the time taken to post this chapter!
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"Lie to me,
Convince me that I've been sick forever.
And all of this will make sense when I get better…"
~Evanescence, Breathe No More
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Chapter 15: No More Mister 'Nice Guy'
So who am I?
It's actually a fairly amusing question. Most humans feel the need to ask you it once or twice in your lifetime, and I have heard it too many times to ignore it now. I can't say I've always answered, though. Most of the times it has been asked of me I would pull out a gun or a knife or my fist or foot and beat it out of their system for trying to ask me who I am. No human can fully comprehend who –or rather what- I am. None of them would ever be able to understand the awesome power within my grasp.
So who am I? Am I just an abused child or an unwanted human? No, I don't believe so. Abuse is in the eye of the beholder. To me, my childhood was a strengthening experience. Everything that happened made me smarter and faster and stronger, and never ever broke me. As for an unwanted human, that never will be. As long as I can shoot, stab, berate, maim, injure and kill, I will always be wanted for something.
It's rather amusing really, to remember small fragments of a past where someone cared about me for a reason other than money. I've a price tag on my head, you see. Last estimate was 22 billion, and no doubt that price has gone up since last I checked. I have been killing since I was twelve. First for work, and then after about the fifth or sixth time, it was a sick pleasure of mine.
At thirteen I was in Japan, taking care of an underground crime leader by the name of Taka Yurishima. He beat his wife and two children to the point that they would eat their own excrement on command. It angered me to see a woman in such a position, and so, to punish him, I spent four hours with him, and every hour I chopped off another of his limbs with a rusty and dull knife. When he had fallen silent I proceeded to cut out his inner organs and hang them from his window.
Covered in blood, I went back to the United States and realized that I no longer cared whether or not human life was being lost. I enjoyed it now. I was addicted to the bloodshed like a human becomes addicted to smoking. I felt like I could tell myself to stop at any time, but I couldn't.
My next mission was in Russia. The one after that was in Roswell, New Mexico. Following that was a blur of blood puddles and gun shots, explosions and knives. I could drive by age thirteen, carried a gun permanently by fourteen, self-diagnosed a paranoid schizophrenic by fifteen, number six in the top ten government assassins by sixteen, a government experiment by nineteen, number four in the top ten government assassins by seventeen, in love with a tech at eighteen, and now, a prisoner of four human agents at nineteen for the first time in my life. Humans say that we are shaped by the events that happen in our life, and I suppose that stays the same for one as torn as I. Inside me is a symbiotic alien species, yet outwardly I am a human. I am bought and paid for like Ryan Trent's lover/whore. I am human cargo for an invasion that I seek to protect and hate as much as I hate the humans I wish to protect.
So who am I, really?
If you ask me that again, I'll kill you. Does that about sum it up?
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John Doggett had never struck a woman in his entire lifetime, and that was saying a lot for a man who had fought for life, liberty, and freedom in some of the foulest places on the planet. He had never once even considered hitting Monica ever and he would kill himself if he did anything to harm his daughter.
But he was getting sick and tired of having people come after him.
Besides, Darcy was a quick enough healer anyways.
The fistfight began with John who grabbed her and forced her up against the wall by her throat, his gun at her chin. Irritated at his attempt to make her a prisoner of a tighter prison, Darcy started to fight back, eventually working their way outside the guest room and into the main room of the basement. She had disarmed him and was enjoying the challenge of beating someone much larger and stronger than she, but never got the chance when someone fired a gun from the top of the stairs.
The bullet hit her in the neck and exploded to the other side with an exit wound the size of a tangerine. She looked up at Monica who was scowling, obviously aware of the situation now.
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"Are we there yet?"
No response.
"Are we there yet?"
No response.
"Are we there yet?"
"Shut up back there!" Louis Chavelle shouted into the back seat irritably, turning back around to focus on driving. Ridder cocked a gun in the passenger seat, making occasional glances into the back seat at the blonde child sitting angrily with her arms crossed. There was silence again for a few precious moments.
"Are we there yet?"
Louis reached for his gun and was met with the barrel of Ridder's weapon in his face.
"She's seven years old Louis. Ignore her." Louis let go of his gun and focused on the road. Meredith yawned, growing bored of the situation. She looked out the windows with an uninterested glare.
"Are we there yet?"
Louis's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He was trying very hard to resist the temptation to shoot the damn kid. Ridder glanced over at him, watching his patience waver.
"Are we there yet?"
He was sweating. Meredith yawned and sighed.
"Are we there yet?"
"Okay, that's it!" Louis grabbed his gun and flipped around in the driver's seat, ready to fire. It only took a moment for Ridder to rip the gun from his hands and disarm him, pushing his focus back to the road with his firearm trained on Louis's head. He breathed heavily, his heart slowing.
"If you kill her, so help me Louis, by the time I am finished with you your carcass will look like road kill."
Silence followed Ridder's stern warning. Louis glanced up into the rear view mirror and saw Meredith's stern face, her eyes meeting his as she stuck out her tongue immaturely.
"Shoot her in the shoulder or something Ridder!"
"NO!" Ridder said sternly. "Shut up an drive Chavelle."
Meredith was pleased with herself. She smiled smugly and got horrible thoughts to further annoy her captors.
"I want some coffee." She said loudly. There was no answer. Her smile faded and another means of manipulation popped into her head.
Meredith screamed.
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The whole basement went quiet as the fight stopped. Darcy's throat healed after she was brought to her knees, coughing up mass amounts of red blood to the floor. The skin closed with no visible scar and the blood stopped dripping and spewing from the cuts. John retrieved his gun from the ground and held it above her, execution style.
"WHERE IS SHE?!" He demanded loudly, the gun pressed against her ear now and nearing where the breed was contained in her skull. Darcy wiped the blood from her lips, tasting it on her fingers, licking it off her swollen lips that slowly decreased in size.
"TELL ME WHERE SHE IS!" He grabbed her neck and forced her to face him. Her eyes met his and she held her face emotionlessly.
"Where did they go?"
She was completely quiet, her mind wanting to stay silent and defy him with everything it was worth, but she found herself breathing deeply and her muscles relaxing, giving her the ability to speak to him.
"He'll never give her back."
"Oh really? What if I handed you back to him?"
"He'd kill every one of you." She said, leaning closer. "You're human nature is too naïve to comprehend what kind of a killer this man is."
"Cut the crap. Tell me where he took her."
"So you can do what? Run in, guns blazing, just so daddy can be the big hero at the end of the day? I don't think so. You'll be dead before you can get within a mile of him."
"So get me to him."
"No." She said.
"That wasn't a request." He told her sternly. "That was an order."
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Sorry, it's really short, but I hope it's enjoyable.