See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

Chapter 10 – Between the Darkness and the Light

Ivanova found it hard to keep from being lost in the melee. This is chaos, she thought to herself. Is this how war is supposed to be? She couldn't tell who was winning, and as she called out to her squad on the radio, she got no response. For a few moments she felt as if all sound fell away and she was watching a silent movie. And then one voice was singled out.

"How do you kill someone who's already supposed to be dead? Now that's a very interesting question."

It came from behind her and she spun on instinct, gun poised for a shot. It didn't matter, though; the speaker, whoever it was, had the advantage and didn't hesitate. She felt the first bullet strike her bulletproof vest, but the second one got her in the left shoulder and she let out a shout and fell to the ground.

"Because I saw you get killed with my own eyes. I saw Captain John Sheridan shoot you three times." A shadow fell over her. She looked up into icy blue eyes. No emotion. No fear. No life.

"Go to hell."

"You first." He cocked his gun; she heard the bullet slide into the chamber with a deafening click, despite all the noise in the background.

"Drop it!"

Ivanova's head jerked instinctively toward the familiar voice and she twisted her shoulder slightly, bringing forth another cry of pain. "Get out of here, Marcus."

The nameless man poised over her narrowed his eyes at that. "This is personal. Maybe I kill him instead?"

"Drop it or I'll fill you so full of holes you'll whistle every time the wind blows."

"I don't like threats."

"Funny. I don't much like you right now either."

"I'll kill her, I swear to God –"

"Fine. Do it." Ivanova's eyes went wide and she mentally cursed Marcus to a thousand nights on the couch if they both managed to survive this. "Look around. You're not getting out of here. Your cronies are falling one by one. So you have two choices. Surrender peacefully and we'll make this less painful for everyone. But you kill her and I assure you, you will not leave here alive."

The commander, from her position sprawled out on her right side, gripped her weapon firmly and aimed it upward. Around them she was vaguely aware that the pop-pop of gunfire was becoming less frequent; that the shouting had died down; that now what she mostly heard, when voices broke through, were Miranda rights and final bargains for life. A voice came through on her radio – it was Corwin, her second tactical squadron leader. "Perimeter mostly secure, Commander," he said, and Ivanova couldn't help thinking – mostly? You're an officer of the law in the biggest battle of your life. Don't say shit like "mostly." Give me a percentage or something. "Estimate… 25 dead." That's better. "Seventeen wounded. Ambulances on the way." Corwin paused. "Commander? Commander Ivanova, please respond."

She reached for her radio. Garibaldi fired.

Marcus fired.

A sharp pain to her back, and then her world went dark.

Delenn clutched the weapon for all she was worth. She had learned to fire one of these once, long ago. It was about the only activity over which she could bond with her father, so as a teen she had asked him to take her to the firing range. She wasn't very good, but it was a good memory.

"Delenn. Put the gun down." Morden's voice was directive, as though he didn't expect anything less than full cooperation.

"No."

"Put the gun down," Morden repeated. "Or you'll pay for it."

"I have paid," Sheridan heard, and he let out a groan, shifting slightly, slowly moving away from Morden, who – somehow – was no longer paying him any attention. He had to drag himself – he couldn't stand, couldn't even crawl. He was in agony, but his heart surged with pride for Delenn. "I have paid for crimes I did not commit, paid for sins that are not mine to bear. I have paid enough. And now you will pay." She raised the gun to fire, arms shaking.

Morden had a problem. He had only one bullet left in the chamber, and he had no idea whether Kosh might have called for reinforcements. It seemed improbable given that most likely, all of Babylon PD was caught in a crossfire between his forces and the Vorlons – but it was not a gamble he could afford to make. If he fired on Delenn, it was very likely he could finish Sheridan off by hand before he bled to death himself. Nodding in decision, he raised the gun.

"NO!" Sheridan roared. He lunged upward, white-hot pain shooting through his whole body as he used all of his remaining strength to knock Morden to the ground – thinking only that if he gave Delenn a few more moments, even if he himself did not survive, she could rethink her strategy, retreat – or fire. There was a burst of a gunshot and Sheridan didn't realize until he felt the warm, sticky wetness of blood that Morden had struck him square in the chest. Somehow it didn't hurt. What was one more infliction piled on top of the abuse his body had already endured?

A second gun fired, and Morden stiffened. John thought maybe Delenn had struck him, but no – Morden only laughed more of that ridiculous evil laughter. He tossed his gun aside and began to move toward Delenn.

"I know you don't want to kill me. You have no one else. You have no other home. No one will want you. No one else will love you. No one else will take care of you." He gave a glance at Sheridan who lay unmoving on the floor. "And I don't think he's going to be around long enough to do you any good. Put the gun down and I won't hurt you."

"You are a liar," she seethed. "You hurt everyone who crosses your path. You do not love me. You do not love anyone. You have no one except those who are afraid of you and I… I am not afraid of you anymore." John was vaguely aware of another gunshot, the sound cutting through the cobwebs in his mind, and this time he heard the unmistakable sound of a body falling, a head hitting the cement floor. He looked over and there was Morden crumpled beside him. Delenn had hit him in the chest, but miraculously, like Sheridan, he was still breathing.

"I didn't think she'd actually do it." Morden sounded shocked as well as pained. He wouldn't last; the question was simply whether he would meet his end before John did. "I didn't think…" Morden's hand moved, and John's mind understood what was happening, though he couldn't move to stop it as the other man's bloody hand grasped a pocket knife and slashed out in John's direction. John's shout as the knife slashed his arm was drowned out by yet another gunshot echoing through the room, and then Morden was looking at him with wide eyes that were quickly glazing over in death.

John's eyes were nearly as wide, in shock, in pain – in the realization that he would very likely not leave this room alive. "Delenn," he choked. "The call. Did you…"

"It is likely they will not come." She crossed the room and sank down, pushing Morden aside and crossing her legs before cradling John's head in her lap.

"Then… I guess… if I have to die," John gasped for air, "At least I can do it looking into the face of an angel."

Her hand brushed over his face, a cool touch on his burning body.

"I only regret that I didn't get the chance to know you outside these walls." He reached up and took her hand, gazing into her eyes. "You know I think… I'm lucky." At her frown, the shake of her head, he continued with labored breath. "I learned something here. I came here thinking… I would find something worth dying for, a cause, something… but what I found…" He squeezed her hand. "What I found was you. I found something… something worth living for."

Faintly, in the distance, Delenn became aware of the sound of sirens.

Sheridan heard them too, though he was utterly convinced it was the harps of the angels, ushering him into heaven. He could feel himself letting go of his body, and yet he kept smiling through the pain, looking up at Delenn, who was smiling back. An angel, that's what she was for sure…

And then he was being lifted, lifted…

"Pulse is weak and thready. Call ahead to the ER – he's lost a lot of blood."

"Lift on my count. Ready? One, two, three."

"Babylon Memorial, this is Unit 14. ETA two minutes. Two DOAs and one male, approximate age 45, single gunshot wound to the chest, multiple abrasions, severe internal and skeletal injuries. Have an OR prepped and ready."

"Blood pressure's dropping!"

"I'm losing the pulse. He's crashing!"

Sheridan looked up. Where was his angel? There she is. He smiled again, and he felt her touch his hand, and then he knew it was OK to let go.