Scott Shelby became a tortured man, waiting for the next alert on his phone. He joined Ben Carver in exhaustion, sleeping sitting up, leaving the monitor only to use the bathroom and, more rarely, to eat.
It was unbearable to leave, to walk out of that gray alcove and leave the boy alone. These were the only conversations he could have with John, and they were so, so short. Ben was trying all the time now to get some sleep. It never ended. It was eternally empty. Dad had disappeared. The phone remained stubbornly silent, and Scott felt his own words of encouragement ring increasingly hollow. Where are you, Dad?
"He's going to come, kiddo. He's on his way." Ben only flinched.
He
lived
breathed
needed
John
I need you john
john
Ben had lost, and Scott knew it. He was going to have to walk through that hellish parade again. Again again again again again again againagainagaina
"Scottie," said John. "Just be here for me." Oh god John was an angel. An angel. The monitor was always trying to trick him into thinking it was already over, but Scott knew. Knew all its secrets.
They were together for it, for the moment. Eventually, all the faces became his face forever, the face that would give Scott Shelby absolution. The face that would let him live. On the screen, John's body floated like a flower, like a white-faced orchid, like the orchid that had to be cut now.
"It's okay, Scottie," said John, "I know you tried."
Scott couldn't help it. He started to sob in earnest and grabbed for the monitor, his hands leaving greasy prints.
"I thought he was going to come, John."
"I know. I forgive you. I'm sorry I was mad."
"And now the next time will be better. It's all set up."
"I have to go now, Scottie." The pale orchid-face was fading. "You're a good brother."
The little room seemed so small without John in it. Scott sobbed for an eternity. When he finally roused himself, he began mechanically, joylessly, working on his new checklist.
Gotta pick up the poor little guy. Cut the orchid. Find a place. What time is it? His body was moving, but his mind was still with John. He worked mechanically through the struggle to his feet and the harvesting of the orchid. He absentmindedly checked over his own appearance – rumpled, but passable. He began to descend the stairs.
He paused outside Melissa's door. Through it, he could hear sobbing. John's waiting. John's waiting, but that sounds bad. He hesitated, then knocked. When she appeared, her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked embarrassed.
"Oh! Mr. Shelby, I'm sorry." She wiped her face with her arm. "What's up?"
"You all right in there? I'm sorry for being nosy, but I heard you crying."
"Oh, yeah," she laughed. Immediately, her smile crumpled, and she broke out into fresh sobs. "I got fired. I don't know what I'm going to do."
"Oh, no, sweetheart," he said, genuinely dismayed. "What happened?" Jesus, she doesn't need the world to give her a kick in the teeth like that. She practically asks for permission to breathe.
She hesitated. "I – "
He shoved the orchid at her through the half-open door. "Listen, miss, this is for you. I've got an idea. I'm going to go downstairs and wait by the door. You wash your face and do whatever else you need, then you come down, and I'm going to take you out to eat, like I said I would. You can tell me all about it. You'll feel better with some food in you."
She was biting her lip, her tear-streaked face working its way towards a smile.
"Come on," he said. "I know all kinds of ways to get out of an impossible situation. I'm a private eye. Deal?"
She gave him a brave little smile that made his heart melt, made him think of all those other brave small faces he carried with him. "Deal." The door closed softly.
He contentedly tramped his way down to the street door, feeling almost entirely healed. It's a cruel old world out there. If I can just keep trying to save a few of the little people it chews up, it's all worth it. He wouldn't get to the warehouse until late, now, but it would be okay. It would be better in the dark, anyhow.
He knew John would understand.
Ridiculously long author's note:
With apologies to the similarly-named literary Raymond Carver who was, by all accounts, a drunk but a very nice guy. Apologies also to everyone for this being so tangential to most of the Heavy Rain narrative, in that it essentially included no one but Scott. The background for it:
"Dammit," I said to my roommate during my second playthrough, "This is just pissing me off now. There is no way Scott would ever fit in this stupid little broken-glass tunnel that Ethan has to crawl through. Fuck this game and its stupid writing." I was mad, because I was fumbling with the awkward controls for that part and kept accidentally turning Ethan all the way around.
"Well," said my stoned roommate, "He, like, kills people all the time. He probably got someone to do it for him."
"You're just sticking up for the game because you're an asshole," I said, because insults comprise about ninety percent of all our conversations, but I was already thinking about it, and once I came up with a tentative fix for it, I knew that poor little Ben Carver had to die.
I can't believe how incredibly long this fanfic became as a solution to, "How does Scott get the broken glass in the tunnel for the butterfly trial?" In retrospect, it would have been far easier for Scott to simply lose his shit with some pedophile or abusive father, and send that guy's ass down the tunnel with a bag of broken glass. The piece as a whole satisfies me, though, in the way it sort of gestures towards Scott's potential other motivations and connections.
I also can't believe how much of a human nuclear disaster I created with Ray to try to act as Scott's foil – the misguided teddy bear who keeps killing people vs. the abusive rageaholic who self-destructs when his one noble effort fails through his own douchebaggery. Both major characters are morally hideous, the kid dies, and the only women in it are passive and helpless. I want to take a shower now to wash the bad-person-ness off of me.
P.S. – someone tell me if those damn things at the power plant aren't called resistors. Most of my electrical knowledge comes from having accidentally electrocuted myself, and I wouldn't know a resistor from, say, a transistor. Or an anteater. (Okay, I could probably figure out the anteater.)