Title: The Time
Fandom: Greatest American Hero
Rating: T, Angst
Completed February 2006
Author: Betsy (aka AnitaLife, because honest to god, I really need a life!)
Disclaimers: Greatest American Hero is the property of Stephen Cannell. Any resemblance to anything is strictly coincidental.
No spoilers. It's in response to "Don't Mess Around with Jim" and "Divorce Venusian Style".
Archive: Sure; just let me know so I can give you the latest version.
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Setting: 25 years after Ralph was given the suit. Bill's cabin in an isolated valley.
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Something was growing inside him as sure as his aging heart tapped its sometimes erratic rhythms. It began as a tiny tug, barely perceptible, but just enough for him to know it was there. It was a gentle call. It didn't insist as much as persist. This tiny inside tug, however amiable, rattled him to his very soul.
From the get go, the whole thing bothered him. He did NOT believe in little green men from outer space. He did not accept any of the wild ravings of delusional, low IQ tractor jockeys, squatting in a remote field, who reported encounters with creeps from another galaxy. It was just not possible or credible, no way, no how, end of scenario!
But, there it was just like a hippo in a car wash, un-contestable, un-ignorable, unavoidable. There were aliens, people from outer space, intertwined with his life. The fact of it ran counter to everything that he was and spat in the face of everything that he believed.
He took a break from chopping wood and ran his hand through as shock of his long, wild, white hair. He regarded his small, hand-build cabin, thinking of what still needed to be done. Winter was coming and his stock of timber was low. Luckily, the fishing had been great, the hunting abundant and he did manage to stockpile a nice supply of smoked meats for the long winter.
His sleep was fitful at best, often leaving him too tired to keep up with what needed to be done for his survival. When he did pass out, for that is the only way he slept, he suffered from endless visions. Dead men walked toward him warning him of impending doom. Green hands reached at him. He would run forever in place, fall endlessly, sometimes falling up, always trapped in a corner alley like a rat. If he was lucky, he would wake with a start and gasp for air. If there was sun light left in the valley, he would try to do what chores he could manage, but he always fell behind. He had always been a lean man, but he had become gaunt with fear, showing the still strong sinew under his skin.
In his waking hours he planned every means of escape from the inevitable. A car was a sure method for "them" to get him. That's how "they" always did it. He made sure he was as far away from cars as possible.
A cabin in the woods was dicey too, since "they" did like to isolate their abductees. However, he thought vainly that could line the cabin with something…something that could hide his lonely existence. That project fell by the wayside due to his lagging energy and a sense that no earthly substance would divert "their" attention. He was grasping at straws.
On his death, he feared that "they" would resurrect him as he had witnessed them doing to other people, including his old partner. He constantly fretted about how he could prevent this from happening to him. Many grim prospects entered his mind as he thought of how he could destroy his body in the event of his death.
Answers to his dilemma did not come readily. If they wanted him, they could have him.
He could elude any human threats but this was beyond even his expertise. "They" could manipulate objects and even take hold of his will. How can even the most seasoned veteran agent overcome those odds single-handedly?
The sound of the roaring stream was pierced by the shrill cry of a red-tailed hawk. Bill Maxwell, retired Federal agent, returned to his chore and lamented the futility of his efforts as the tiny tug grew.