Chapter Two: Surviving Team One
"Ed?" Wordy called, keeping his voice down.
Nothing.
Wordy checked his radio and tried again, "Sarge? Anyone?"
Silence and static were his only response. What the heck is going on?
Unnerved, Wordy turned the channel control, listening on each channel. Finally on channel five, he heard voices.
"Kevin! Where are you?" Jules demanded sharply, making Wordy jump, both at the lack of his nickname and an unfamiliar hard edge in her voice. He looked down at the silver pocket-watch and quickly unfastened his equipment vest, pushed his bullet-proof vest aside, and shoved the watch into an inner pocket of his uniform. He wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, but his team needed him and he wasn't going to let them down.
"Co…coming," Wordy responded, re-fastening his vest and snatching up the gun and shield. The shield was unexpectedly heavy and Wordy dropped it before grimacing and hefting the shield up again, shoving down the sudden and unexpected exhaustion; exhaustion that made his gear seem ten times heavier than usual and dragged at his feet. He looked around, then picked a direction, hoping it was the right way. It felt like he'd been dropped into the middle of a movie, expected to know his lines and stage directions without so much as a script or an intro – or a warning.
"Hurry up, Kevin," Ed snarled, his voice hard and angry.
Wordy flinched at that tone of voice from his best friend, but kept moving. As he reached the end of the alley, he spotted Jules and jogged to her. She glared at him.
"What took you so long?" she hissed, shoving him back a little as he reached her. Her hair was longer than it had been that morning and her vest actually looked sloppy, which was very unlike the conscientious Jules. And she had a total and complete lack of compassion and empathy; though Wordy looked exhausted and more than a bit confused, Jules' expression was filled with nothing but contempt for her own teammate.
Wordy resisted the temptation to ask, 'Who are you and what have you done with Jules?'; instead he offered a quiet, "Sorry," receiving a disbelieving huff for his effort.
"Save it, Kevin. If we lose this guy, it's your fault."
Wordy gaped at Jules' back as she turned and drew her gun. Why wasn't it already drawn? Wordy wondered. An uneasy, 'something is very wrong' feeling started crawling up his back, but he forced it aside, determined to do his job and keep the peace.
"Jules, Wordy, entry as we planned," the Sarge's voice came over. Wordy swallowed in relief to hear his nickname, but an unfamiliar slur in Sarge's voice made him stiffen and frown all over again.
"Copy," both officers chorused.
Wordy moved a bit in front of Jules, shielding her for entry. He ignored her "Oh now you're gonna do this right?" and waited for the order.
"Go, go, go!" Ed ordered. "Now, now, now!"
Wordy and Jules hit the door, the former using his weight to force it open. "Strategic Response Unit!" Jules yelled, as the pair entered a shabby, run-down room. She moved away from the shield, forcing Wordy to move with her as he sought to keep the shield between her and the subject.
"Down on the ground," Wordy ordered as a shaggy, grimy man leapt up. The subject grabbed a handgun and fired it wildly at both SRU officers. The bullets pinged off Wordy's shield. Jules snarled and moved to the side again. Wordy followed her, frustrated at her uncharacteristic behavior. More bullets pinged off the shield.
"Move him back," Sarge ordered. Wordy blinked, surprised that Sarge was giving tactical orders. More than that even; Sarge was giving orders that sounded like he wanted the subject lined up for a sniper shot. Why would Sarge want this guy dead when we haven't even tried talking? The thought was brief, but Wordy decided he'd probably just missed the negotiation, just like he seemed to have missed everything else between the bookshop and the alley; even so, he did not try to move the subject back into Sam or Ed's line of fire.
"Drop the gun, hands in the air," Wordy ordered, moving to the side yet again to shield Jules. He caught a quick glimpse of a startled look from the subject, then the man snarled and hurled something in their direction.
"Grenade, get down!" Wordy yelled as he hurtled into Jules, pushing her down and covering both of them with the shield. The grenade went off with a muffled thump, but the shield absorbed most of the blow, its metal twisting a bit under the force of the blast. The subject vanished through a ragged door behind him, his eyes wild and fearful as he ran. Wordy scrambled back up and headed after the subject, hitting a dead run even with the dragging, nagging exhaustion.
Jules stayed on the floor, grumbling about her hair getting messed up; she didn't bother getting up again to back up her teammate. Instead, she tugged her hair out of its ponytail and began to fix her hairstyle as best she could without a mirror or brush; Jules hummed to herself as she worked, unconcerned about her teammates or the subject.
"Edward!" Sarge snapped over the comm.
"No solution, that stupid grenade blocked my shot," Ed snapped back.
"We're fine, thanks for your concern," Wordy put in as he ran, sarcasm and hurt turning his tone bitter and just a tad angry. Edward? Since when does the Sarge call Ed, Edward? And since when do they care more about stopping a subject instead of looking after the team?
Wordy panted as he caught up with the subject, his trusty shield blocking another smattering of shots from the desperate man; he hoped the subject wouldn't run again, the cop was fast running out of steam and his shield was getting heavier and heavier. "SRU! Put down the gun and put your hands in the air!" Wordy ordered, aiming at the subject, who had stopped in the middle of the run-down warehouse, his escape blocked by a rusty old conveyer belt. Once again, the man gave Wordy an utterly bewildered look at his words. Then he fired again, but on the third shot, the gun clicked uselessly.
"Shoot him!" Ed snarled in Wordy's ear.
Wordy shook his head, but didn't respond. Shoot an unarmed man, what's Ed thinking?
"I have the solution." Sam's voice was ice, no emotion at all. No, Sam, don't.
"He's out of ammo," Wordy reported, a trace of alarm under his words. There was no reason to shoot an unarmed man.
"Good," Sarge replied. What? "Scorpio."
Wordy froze in horror at the order. Sam fired, the subject dropping. Blood poured from the downed man's chest. Wordy moved forward, furious and heart-broken over what his team had just done. Why? Why would Sarge do that? We could have arrested this guy, brought him back alive; isn't that what the job is about? Saving lives, even if they're the bad guys?
The constable's sense of something being very wrong with his team took a large jog up, but the pieces of the puzzle still didn't, couldn't, click. A groan came from the fallen man and Wordy sprang forward, crouching and reaching to check the subject's pulse. It throbbed against his fingers, fading rapidly. Wordy swallowed and looked down to see the man's eyes open; he forced himself to meet the subject's gaze – this was partially Wordy's fault, after all. Wasn't it?
"I'm sorry," he whispered, wary of the comm still in his ear.
The dying man's gaze shifted from Wordy's eyes and trailed down Wordy's outstretched arm, pausing abruptly. He raised his hand a little, trying to point, and Wordy frowned in confusion. "Different," the man rasped.
"What?"
"Patch, looks diff'r'nt," the man repeated. "Y'u diff'r'nt…no like them…" The last word trailed off as the man sagged, dead.
Wordy frowned and sat back a moment, considering the odd remarks. Hearing movement behind him as Jules finally caught up, he reached out and closed the staring eyes. Then he turned the body over and hand-cuffed the dead subject.
"What the hell happened, Kevin?" Ed demanded, less than an inch from Wordy's face. His expression, like his voice, was like granite, harsh and unyielding. The laugh lines he'd sported that morning were gone, replaced by frown grooves. One look at Ed's face earlier, in the warehouse, and Wordy had known, before the other man even spoke, that banter would not be welcome; not that Wordy felt like bantering after the completely uncalled for and unjust Scorpio shot.
"I don't know, Edward, what did happen?" Wordy snapped back, fed up; inside, a flicker of hurt surfaced, wondering when his best friend had been replaced by this hostile stranger.
"You had the shot!" Ed all but roared.
"Sarge didn't give me the order," Wordy hissed, though he would have loved to rake Sarge over the coals for having an unarmed man shot.
"That's enough Edward," Sarge broke in, looking up from his flask, which he'd been drinking from since the start of the debrief. He had the bloodshot eyes and face of a hard and habitual drinker, something that had given Wordy an awful start when he'd realized it and made him even more unnerved than he had been during the hot call. "Wordy understands the chain of command." The drunken man tipped his flask in Wordy's general direction, though he was already so drunk that his 'aim' was off by several centimeters.
Ed snarled but made no reply, his expression disdainful, disdain lashing at Wordy and the Sarge alike; Wordy shivered inwardly at his best friend's behavior. Ed, what's wrong with you?
"Constable Lane?" a subdued, beaten-down Spike with slicked-back hair asked.
"What do you want, geek?" Ed demanded, rounding on Spike, who cowered.
"Let him talk," Wordy snapped, furious with his best friend, fed up with his team, and more than a little eager for things to go back to normal. What the heck is going on with everyone and since when does Spike call Ed 'Constable Lane'?
"How's Jules?" Spike asked feebly, sinking lower in his seat and cringing again.
"None of your business, geek-boy," Sam growled, glaring at Spike. He looked the same, but, like Ed, sported an icy, harsh demeanor. And, like Jules, he lacked every last bit of the warmth and compassion Wordy was used to.
"Julianna declined to join us for the debrief," Sarge slurred from his place. "She informed me that Wordy managed to completely ruin her hairstyle and she needed time to fix her hair before her evening shift at her other job."
Say what? Since when does Jules have a second job? And I 'ruined her hairstyle'? Wordy frowned and looked around the room. No one looked surprised, though Ed practically seethed with annoyance. Wait a second…where's Lou? The uneasy, 'something is very wrong' feeling he'd had since finding himself in an alley surged to new heights and fear crept up his spine.
Not only was something was wrong, very, very wrong, but the pieces of this team didn't fit. It's like my team has been turned into completely different people. What's happened to them? How did I get from the bookstore to that alley and how do I get my team back?
Ed stepped forward, getting back in Wordy's space. "If you ever disobey a direct order to fire again, I'll have your badge," the team leader snarled, his face contorting in his raw fury.
Wordy made a split-second decision. "Yeah, you and what army?" he asked scornfully, praying his gut instinct was right. Snickers rose from the rest of the group. Ed growled, getting closer and Wordy suppressed a cringe as he forced himself to shove his best friend back and away. "Stay out of my face," Wordy snapped, letting his frustration and his darker side out.
Ed surged back, shoving Wordy against the wall, a gleam of avarice in his eyes. As Wordy stumbled into the wall, he noticed his 'team' was watching avidly, enjoying the altercation. Ed tried to follow up on the shove and Wordy snatched his opening; in one fluid move, he twisted Ed's arm and forced him down on one knee; from there, Wordy took full advantage of the fact that Ed was off-balance to send him tumbling to the ground.
The team leader sprang back to his feet, hate glowing in his eyes and his hands balling into fists, but before he could launch at Wordy, Sarge rose, stumbling a bit and swaying just a touch. "Edward, enough. Wordy?"
"Yes, Sarge?" Wordy inquired, though he kept his eyes on Ed and his shoulders tense, using his size as a silent warning to the taller, but thinner team leader.
"Don't switch channels on your team again." Sarge leaned forward and squinted, more trying to glare than actually glaring.
"Copy that," Wordy acknowledged. That's it? Just 'don't switch channels' and nothing else?
"We done yet? I wanna get over to the club and watch Jules," Sam complained.
"Yeah, I've got something going on too," Spike put in.
"Okay, okay," Sarge gave in. "Team dismissed."
Wordy let the others go ahead of him. He looked back at Sarge, who had slumped back into his seat. "You okay, Sarge?"
Sarge looked up from his flask, surprised. "Just fine, Wordy." He eyed the tall SRU officer. "Keep up the good work and you'll get to team leader one of these days." He smirked at Wordy as he spoke, a gleam Wordy didn't trust in his eyes.
Wait, what? I'm happy with Ed as team leader, well, at least I was before he took a swing at me. What the heck is Sarge talking about? And why is he drunk? Thought he quit years ago.
Getting more unnerved by the minute, Wordy left the room and headed for the locker room. He entered, only to get shoved aside by Sam as the latter stormed out. Ed and Spike didn't even look up as Wordy moved to his own locker and opened it up. Wordy looked at the pictures on the inner doors, blinking. The images were different; more stiff, formal, almost posed rather than the relaxed family shots that should have been there. Other items in the locker had different names and the organization had changed.
The constable frowned to himself as he took his equipment and bullet-proof vests off; with everyone acting so weird, he wasn't sure he wanted his stuff in the equipment cage. With the vests off, Wordy reached up to tug the zipper of his uniform down and stopped at the soft clink from an inner pocket. The pocket-watch. Wary, he opted to leave his uniform on and dawdled through getting his street clothes out. Spike left first, slamming out of the locker room and already on his phone. Ed took longer, but eventually Wordy was alone in the locker room.
Wordy looked around for anyone else and then opened up the inner pocket he'd stashed the pocket-watch in. It slipped out, glittering innocently in the locker room lights. Wordy sucked in a breath and looked up. His gaze landed on the SRU emblem painted on the locker room wall and he stared at it with dawning horror and no small amount of terror.
The emblem looked familiar, but not; like looking in a fun house mirror and seeing doors and people twisted into caricatures of themselves. Only this was no fun house and Wordy wasn't looking in a mirror. The emblem's knight helm had turned into a berserker helm and the lightning bolts had twisted into a swastika, a sight that made Wordy shiver in the empty room, his blood suddenly running very, very cold.
Hell…I'm in Hell. The SRU officer looked around again, relieved he was finally alone. His team, no, definitely not his team, had all left by now. The events of the briefing ran though Wordy's head again, the pieces clicking into place at last. A briefing Jules hadn't even stayed for, a briefing where Ed, no, Edward, had laid into him for not shooting their subject, and the Sarge had been drunk and getting drunker by the minute.
Wordy swallowed hard. Kevin, they all called me Kevin, except the Sarge. Wait… Wordy's gaze darted back to the SRU emblem. I've seen that before, he realized with a renewed surge of fear. When Ed called me Kevin a few months ago. When he and Spike got caught in that building collapse. He, he was talking about another me, and another Team One, and I told him it was just a dream. Wordy snorted. So much for that idea. Then that porter gave him a keychain and he went white. It looked just like that emblem.
Stunned and terrified, Wordy sank down on the locker room bench. Real, it was real…no it is real…and now I'm stuck here.
The eerie, twisted emblem loomed over the normally tough and calm constable, mocking his quiet plea. "Please, I want to go home."
His gaze dropped to the pocket-watch and he scrambled to get it open, almost dropping the silver device in his haste. It clicked open and sat on his palm, but nothing happened.
"No, no, no…" Wordy moaned, clicking the watch closed and open again. Again, nothing happened and Wordy forced himself to stop. He sucked in air and studied the pocket-watch, thinking hard. Okay, I know it brought me here. It should work the other way, right? The exhaustion he'd been battling all afternoon surged up again and Wordy let his head drop a bit. Maybe that's it…maybe if I wait a few days, it'll work again.
Wordy set the watch down and kept his eyes on it as he dressed in his…well, his 'twin's' street clothes. He slid the watch into his jeans pocket and tucked his uniform in the locker, sliding the two vests in after it; he was not going to lose his gear. Wary of the hellish world outside, he snatched up his sidearm and clipped it to his belt. He most certainly was not going to risk losing his sidearm and trusting the probably ill-maintained guns of this SRU or any of their equipment, really.
Before leaving, Wordy fingered his SRU patch. Stay safe guys…I don't know how, but I'm coming home.
