A/N: This was written, sort of, for Sanguine Ink. Mainly because she planted the idea of using McKenney again in my head, and here this is. Sorry it's not plotty and actiony like the last one; I kept trying to make it be, but this is what came out. Maybe I'll write another one later that has a plot. :)
Set after Children of Earth.
"You!" Jack ignored the voice behind him. It was loud, and very slightly drunk, and probably not talking to him. No one knew him here- he'd seen to that. He was light-years from Earth, and centuries from the wasted colony world that he'd once called home. He was sitting in the cheapest bar he could find, drinking alone, and wishing that his liver didn't regenerate faster than the alcohol destroyed it.
"You!" the voice said, again, closer now. It sounded angry. "You broke my knee, you son of a bitch!" A hand grabbed his shoulder. Jack pulled it away. He whirled to his feet, taking a fighting stance without having to think about it.
The owner of the hand started laughing. Jack relaxed a little, and took stock of the other man. He was short, but powerfully built- and there was something familiar about him. Slowly, recognition dawned. "The Arena?" Jack said.
"Ahh- you remember now, you old bastard!" McKenney said, grinning. He sat down at the stool next to Jack. "What was your name?" he asked. "I didn't pay attention to the announcerbot, back then. Tried not to know the names."
"Jack," he answered. "Holly, right?"
"Hollis," the other man said, with a grimace. "Or Mackie. I haven't been called Holly since the Arena. What are you drinking?" he asked.
Jack laughed. "Anything with alcohol in it," he said.
McKenney grinned. "My kind of drinker," he said, and signalled the bartender.
"How long's it been?" Jack asked, curious. He hadn't paid close attention to his current year.
"Three years now, right?" McKenney said, taking possession of his drink. "Hell of a thing. They say that the studio execs went up on charges a year back, did you hear that?"
Jack shook his head. "Haven't been paying attention. But it's good, I guess. If people are saying it was criminal, maybe it'll be a while before someone tries to build another one."
"Can you imagine?" McKenney downed half his drink in one gulp, coughing a little. When the coughing died down, he looked closely at Jack. "Thought you'd bought it," he said. "After the gates opened, I saw that tall, skinny guy- friend of yours?"
"Yeah," Jack said, swallowing his bitterness. "I guess."
McKenney nodded. "There was an explosion in the Barrier, and he came walking out of it, not caring, like fire couldn't burn him. Then he marched right up to Control's front door. At that point, I decided I better leg it. Made myself a crutch, and was trying to get to my feet. By the time I was up, he came walking back out, carrying-" McKenney stopped, and shrugged. "By the looks of you, I figured you were dead. Your friend looked plenty pissed about it, too. Must have been a hell of a recovery you made."
Jack nodded. "Pertussis in the water," he said. McKenney winced. Jack finished his drink. "I saw video of you later," he added. "Helping people get away."
"The perimeter went down," McKenney said, "but the killbots were still flying. S'funny- if the Arena had stayed in business, I'd probably had ended up killing most of those kids. But now, they seem to think I'm some kind of damn hero."
That was too much, too close to his own pain. Jack gripped his empty glass much too tightly and looked away, closing his eyes, getting himself under control. "You okay?" McKenney asked.
"No," Jack said. "Sorry. Look, I'm glad you're doing alright-"
"But you'd like me to leave you alone, so you can get back to the serious drinking you were doing." Jack heard McKenney shift in his chair. "Who died?" he asked.
Jack did not smile. "I'd rather drink than talk," he said.
McKenney signalled the bartender again. "Was it the skinny guy?"
"The Doctor?" Jack said. He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "No. Not him. Not this time. Would have been nice if he'd bothered to show up, though. Maybe I wouldn't have had to-" Jack shook his head.
"The Doctor?" McKenney asked, dubiously. "That's his name?"
Jack nodded. "He'd have found another way," he said. He couldn't stop himself. The words just tumbled out. "If he'd been there, he'd have found some other way. He'd never have done what I did, and he'll probably never forgive me, either." Jack reached for his drink. He definitely needed more alcohol.
McKenney let out a short, sharp breath. "So it's somebody you killed, huh?" Jack nodded. McKenney took a drink. "Yeah," he said. "I know what it's like to kill people."
This was getting out of hand. Jack shouldn't have started this conversation. He just wanted to be left alone.
"All those kids," McKenney continued. "I mean, yeah, they used convicts in the Arena, but most of the people there were just people. In on minor drugs charges, or vandalism or something. They kept throwing them at me, and I just kept killing them- all those people that never did anything to me. You know what they tell me now?" He didn't wait for an answer. "They say it wasn't my fault, that the game made me kill. But I made the decision, every time. Them, or me, and I chose to be a killer every time."
"It was my grandson," Jack said, savagely. Maybe McKenney would leave him alone, if he knew what he was dealing with. "I had to choose: everyone else's children, or mine. Millions of kids, or one. So I killed my own daughter's son."
McKenney was silent for a moment- long enough for Jack to hope that he was done talking. "Shit, man," McKenney said, finally. "No wonder you're trying to do suicide by bottle."
Jack laughed. "I'd do suicide by anything, if I could." He started looking around for more alcohol. "That's the worst thing- I can't even die. I should, right? It would be the decent thing to do. Maybe Alice would forgive me, then. But no." Jack wasn't sure why he was still talking.
"What do you mean?" McKenney asked.
"What you were saying about the Arena?" Jack said. "You were right. I bought it. I was dead. And then, like I always do, I got better. I can't ever die." His voice was getting louder. "So now, what the hell am I supposed to do? You don't just live with something like this."
McKenney shrugged. "I guess you have to," he observed. Jack stood up, turned to leave. "I mean, fuck, we all have to," McKenney continued, taking another swig of his drink. "You think there's something after this? After you die, I mean?"
Jack laughed again, short, and ugly. "Just darkness," he said. "I hate to tell you this, but there's nothing there."
"I thought about it," McKenney said, and there was a nakedness in his voice that stopped Jack from walking away. "Kept waking up in the middle of the night with their faces staring at me. All those pairs of eyes, all dead. I thought, maybe I owed it to them. But what would it mean? What point would there be? They're gone. Me being gone wouldn't change that. Just one more corpse."
"There's no justice in the universe," Jack said, quietly.
"No," McKenney said. "There isn't." He finished his drink, draining the last drops. "Come with me," he said. "I have something for you." Jack hesitated. McKenney stood, made his way to the door, and waited expectantly. Finally, Jack followed him.
They walked in silence, and not altogether steadily. McKenney led him to a building only a few blocks away from the bar, and then to a bare, ugly apartment three floors up. McKenney let them in, and then walked into the back room.
"Usually, when a guy invites me back to his place, I already know why," Jack called.
McKenney laughed. "Bet you do," he said. "No, just a second. I remember where I left it-" McKenney emerged, holding a small, wrapped object. "This is yours," he said.
Jack took it, and unwrapped it. It was his blaster, meticulously cared for.
"I didn't think I'd ever get the chance to give it back," McKenney added.
Jack held the gun loosely in his hand. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked, helplessly.
McKenney shrugged. "What does a guy like you ever do with a gun?" he said. "You used it to save my life. Maybe someone else will need saving, down the line."
"I'm not-" Jack said, his voice heavy with grief. "I don't think saving people is what I'm good for anymore."
McKenney looked at him, appraisingly. "No," he said. "You're wrong. Once you start being the kind of guy who doesn't just walk on by when somebody's in trouble, you can't not be that guy anymore. You never stop hearing them when they cry for help." He paused. "I know that. That's what you did to me."
Jack leaned against the wall, eyes shut. "All I did was give you a gun," he said, quietly.
"You didn't kill me," McKenney said, evenly. "You cared whether I lived or died. It got me thinking- maybe it wasn't just me or them, kill or be killed. Maybe there could be mercy." He looked away, embarrassment plain on his face.
"Maybe someday," Jack said. "Not right now. Not for me." He turned, and walked away.
McKenney watched him go, not trying to stop him. Jack took the blaster pistol with him.