Swordbearer

By Vega

Standard Disclaimers Apply

Part Twenty: "Thanks, But Aim."

November 1st, 2006 – 5am

Dawn was coming.

The sky was a heavy gunmetal grey, thick and damp with the threat of building rain.

"You know," I said conversationally, "Lily and James Potter were killed by a psycho purist on November first."

Garret paused, holding open the cab door for me, and made a face. "I guess that makes Professor Martin Wormtail. But am I Harry or Sirius?"

"Um... think you'll go to jail tomorrow?"

"Maybe," he said.

"Sirius, then."

He held out his hand to help me out of the cab. I took it. He squeezed my fingers and said, "Don't be Lily." I raised my eyebrow at him. He tugged me to my feet, slammed the car door behind me, and said again, "Don't be Lily. And I won't let Adam be James."

"Right," I said. "I'll do what I can... you can let go now." Garret released my hand, fingers uncurling with reluctance. "Let's go kick some Dark Lord ass."

"Eh," the cabbie said through the window. "You want I should wait for you? Er, wonna you?"

I gave him a glance. "Will you run the meter?"

"Um..." he said, looking at the digital display. I casually laid my hand on the pommel of my sword. "No," he said quickly. "No, I won't."

"Great," I said. "See you soon, I hope."

"Right," he said, swallowing heavily. "Soon."

Garret and I turned to the wide open field. About two hundred meters in front of us "He's hardly in the Dark Lord category," Garret amended conversationally. "More like... Lucius Malfoy."

I snorted. "Pompous, overbearing, ineffective, with a pimp cane?"

"Yeah."

"Works for me."

Garret's free hand was shoved into his blazer pocket, where he was no doubt gripping the gun. His fingers opened and closed repeatedly in a waterfall of nerves on the Ivanhoe's hilt. This was his first real fight.

I'd almost forgotten the nerves that attacked before the first fight. Not that I was Little Miss Calm... but I'd had to fight for my life before. In this case, I was fighting for Adam's life – if he's still alive – but it was the same principal.

Kill the other guy before he kills you – or Adam – or Adam, shut up little niggling voice, and do it fast and ruthlessly.

I'd never been one for fancy swordplay or sweeping gestures. You get inside their defences and you end it. Period. I hoped this time it would be that straightforward.

I laid a comforting hand on Garret's shoulder and squeezed once. "You'll be okay," I said.

"Sure. Right," he said back, his voice tight and his words clipped.

"Breathe," I reminded him.

He took a deep breath, held it for a second, and released it. I could feel some of the tension leak away. "Right, so, ah... we got a plan, Abby?"

"Save Adam, possibly kill psycho, and kick Prof. Martin in the nuts. Hard."

Garret wuffed out a chortle before he could clamp down on it. "Right, right. Good plan. Now, seriously?"

I shrugged. "I go in first? You shoot it if it moves?"

"What if I shoot Adam?"

"I'm sure he'll forgive you later."

"What if I shoot him on purpose?"

I punched Garret's arm. "You really don't like my boyfriend, do you?"

Garret's gay mood simmered. "If it wasn't for him, you might be calling me that right now."

"Uh-huh," I agreed. "Maybe. But if it wasn't for Adam, it'd been you that had been poisoned and I'd be at your funeral instead of here trying to play hero."

He grimaced. "Point."

Did I believe what I had just said? If Adam hadn't shown up, would I be with Garret now? It was a question I had asked myself a number of times over the past two weeks. If Adam hadn't have arrived, then perhaps Garret's declaration of love on my couch might not have gone unheeded.

On the other hand, if it wasn't for Adam chiding me and talking to me about the Peeping Tom Sickos, then I would still be furious with Garret, and would never have talked to him at all.

It was hard to say what would have happened.

So I stopped dwelling on it. It hadn't happened and that's just the way things were.

Instead I turned my attention to the Formal Combat Area ahead of us. There weren't many places to hide inside of it, pretty much on purpose. There were the bleachers, and the would be a pain in the ass to leap over, but otherwise the whole structure was open in an effort to keep the playing field level between two Immortal opponents.

The whole thing rather reminded me of a Gladiatorial Coliseum, and not in the good way. I was not so much a fan of FCAs, any more than I was a fan of the VWL. But they kept rubbernecking mortals safe from the Quickening, so I guess I couldn't complain. They were a part of life now, like Immortal IDs and Phoey.

Didn't mean I had to like them, though.

The last Immortal to deliberately take a head outside of an FCA had been charged with 'Wilful Destruction of Property' and 'Attempted Manslaughter' when the Quickening had destroyed a parking garage of Benzes and electrocuted a valet on his way to pick one up.

I shudder to think what would happen to an Immortal in jail – probably get passed around the big bastards, and killed regularly for the thrill of it, cause it wasn't like you wouldn't come back.

So FCAs and VWLs and FOIs and IDs it was.

Too many damn acronyms in my life, lately.

The FCA in particular that I was scoping out was just on the outskirts of the city, in a large field that had once been a Vineyard. The founder of the Winery was an Immortal, so he had donated land in about six different countries from his dozens of farms in an attempt to generate more business. Savvy, savvy man.

A high wooden wall surrounded the arena, and several haphazard bleachers had been set up by those who liked to watch. Sometimes the city or theatre groups rented the FCA to setup bazaars or stage outdoor plays, but not often.

Nobody really liked the thought of performing where others had fought for their lives and died.

Once there had been a sort of play-protest, in which the local University theatre group had created a drama to call for the abolishment of the Game. I went and saw it three times, completely in agreement with the message, even though the Quickenings were represented by thrown paper streamers and the dialogue was written in slip-shod metaphors.

The actor playing the Immortal had done a funny dance with a screwed up face to represent the pleasure and pain of the Quickening.

I had laughed out loud, when everyone else in the audience had been crying. Well, it was funny. I was fairly certain no one had ever done such a strange little jig while taking a Quickening and I kept imagining an Immortal tap dancing around lightning strikes.

I scanned the high walls of the FCA for the tell-tale glint of starlight on metal, and found none. No snipers, that I could see, but made a point of moving in front of Garret to block any bullets that may come out of the darkness.

Two large metal spikes towered over the bleachers on either end of the roughly circular field to help keep mortal spectators safe from lightning. Quickenings tended to prefer Immortals over the tallest object in the area, but sometimes they weren't so picky about their conductors.

The field itself, I knew, was covered with springy turf and lush green grass, well cared for to erase unsightly scorch marks and ankle-twisting divots. It wouldn't do for an Immortal to loose because they had tripped.

I, myself, had fought here only once since its construction, and obviously I had won, though I knew of other fights that had taken place here. I was more or less the only Immortal who lived in the St. Catharine's area, but nearby Niagara Falls had a few, and there were always those who were travelling on the 400 series highways that cut across southern Ontario.

I didn't know who he'd been, my single Challenger. He had breezed into town, issued the Challenge, called me a whole slew of insulting things, and set the time. I was just POed enough at his audacity to take him up on it.

Jerk.

At the time I had cancelled my plans with Garret to go see the new Joss Weadon movie. I told him I had caught a cold to keep him from knowing and from worrying about me. Back when I had still completely trusted Garret and thought he'd been just an innocent mortal, I had been concerned that he would get himself hurt trying to protect me.

Back before I knew he loved me. Back before I knew that he was my Watcher and that he knew better than to jump into the middle of a Challenge.

I had always sort of known in the back of my mind, ever since the United Nation's announcement, that I had to have a Watcher. I had just been content with the thought that I would never know who it was. My Watcher was still a Peeping Tom Sicko, but he or she was a faceless one, and I could deal with that.

To know that my best friend had been...

The anger flared again and I shoved it back down. Now as not the time.

And it's not like he had become my best friend because he was my Watcher. In fact, if had been me who had talked to him first. I had told him I liked his tee-shirt. It had said, "Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, All my base are belong to you."

But even though I hadn't told him about the Challenge, Garret would had known, of course, that I was going to fight. The other Immortal's Watcher had probably told him.

A stabbing pierce of guilt slammed into my stomach.

Garret had watched me fight. Garret had known I might die.

And because of his oath, he couldn't tell me that he wanted me to be careful before hand. He couldn't tell me that he was scared that I might die.

And because of my own selfishness and stubbornness, and my inability to trust him with my secret even though the world knew what Immortals were, we might never have had the chance to discuss it.

We would never have had the chance to say goodbye.

The thought was sobering.

I wanted to tell him this.

That I was sorry, now, that I had never trusted him. That I had been such a poor friend in the past.

That I was such a poor friend, now.

I stopped and turned around to look at him. He stopped too, met my gaze. His green eyes were full of fear and shivering determination. Garret had never fought before, I was suddenly reminded. He was afraid he was going to die in a few minutes.

Now was a bad time to say a 'just in case' goodbye.

Even if I wanted to, badly.

He needed my support, not my pity. He needed hope, not 'just in case'es.

Now was a very bad time to apologize.

There would be plenty of time after – when Adam was safe and burning dinner, and Grey Suit was corpsified, and Prof. Martin was behind bars. Then I could talk to Garret, finally talk to him.

Then I could say 'I'm sorry.'

Instead I said, "What kind of moron cops wouldn't look here first for a psycho Deatheater wannabe with an Immortal hostage?"

"St. Catharine's cops," Garret said. A smile threatened on his lips. Some more of the stiff tension left his frame.

Good enough.

"Right," I agreed. "Ready?"

"Ready."

We began to walk again. After a few steps, the familiar buzz of a Quickening skimmed across my brain. It might not have been Adam's, but I doubted a different Immortal would be in on Grey Suit's sucky crusade.

And if there was an Immortal with him, I was gonna kill it good.

"Thank God," I sighed. "Adam's alive."

"Good," Garret said. "Much as I think he's a jerk, you like him. Let's keep him that way."

I put my hand on the knob of the door that would take us through the wooden wall, pushing on it gently, testing for bombs or electrocutions or booby traps. Nothing.

It was even unlocked.

What the hell was Grey Suit playing at?

I pushed the door open slowly.

Nothing.

Hm.

I smiled, put a hand on the wall.

"I wonder whose bril idea it was to construct a wooden wall for a place consistently bombarded with lighting," I said over my shoulder to Garret. He grinned. Finally, he was relaxed enough to not shoot his own foot out of nerves. "I mean, hello, firetrap much?"

Adam was on his knees in the middle of the field. It was a humiliating position and it was meant to be. Ropes were wrapped over and over down his chest, pinning his arms firmly behind him. Obviously he had fought back rather well.

His lip was torn and split, dribbling a bit of blood. Dried liquid of the same persuasion from his formally broken nose was crusted all down his chin and neck.

His skin was ashen.

He looked like shit.

I wondered if they had poisoned him again, to keep him docile. I wouldn't put it past Grey Suit.

Garret and I stopped just inside of the doorway, eyes skimming the bleachers for shooters, supporters, acolytes, anyone. No one.

Hm, again.

Professor Martin stood beside Adam, Grey Suit's sword poised just above Adam's neck. Martin's skin was ashen too, though I don't think it was from poison.

Grey Suit stood behind him, hand still swaddled with his garish blue tie, though blood had seeped through to polka dot it with gore. He was grinning like a fiend.

"Now!" Grey Suit cried.

I saw their plan in an instant. Kill Adam, distract me with a Quickening – take out Garret, then me. Garret wasn't moving fast enough. I wished I had a gun. I'd shoot Martin in the arm, make him unable to swing.

Professor Martin hesitated. "But--!" he said. Oh, thank God he was a bad acolyte. "I wanna be a Watcher. I don't see how killing an Immortal will do that!"

So he'd been played too.

I could use that. Maybe.

"Do it now!" Grey suit shrieked.

Martin raised the blade, but his hesitancy had given us the stall we'd needed. Garret's gun coughed beside my ear. He was a lousy shot, but the sound of the gun firing was enough to make Professor Martin back up with tripping, terrified steps, and drop the sword.

Adam winced as the bullet lanced into his shoulder.

"Hey, kid," he wheezed. "Thanks for the rescue, but fucking aim!"