Author's Note: Booya. Onward, excelsior.
Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!
Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!
CHAPTER FIVE
THE CONSEQUENCES WE REAP
*
Everyone came around here, everyone else got sick
And watched the clock ticking slowly
Everyone knew the ending
Well it's far away in a hurricane, twisting slowly
Now it's gone today: it's the end of the world
My world, my love, my gun
Now I'm all alone
-End of the World-
June 28th, 2009
"The world of medicine has seen its share of miracle cures," the female television host recaps, eyes locked on the camera in confidence. "From the polio vaccine, to heart transplants. But all past achievements may pale in comparison to the work of Dr. Temperance Brennan. Previously known for her work as an accomplished author and forensic anthropologist working in league with the FBI." Her line of sight transfers to her guest. Flashes the dazzling smile that landed her the job. "Thank you so much for joining us today."
Brennan shifts uncomfortably in her seat, eyes flittering about for possible getaway routes. Or for the man who can offer her said means of escape. He is supposed to be picking her up. And she's never been one for interviews. "Yes, I'm…" she trails off, forcing a hesitant smile, "happy to be here."
"Doctor Brennan," the host begins, fine eyebrows arching into her forehead with enthusiasm. "Give it to me in a nutshell."
Confident that she's thinking of the correct idiom, Brennan clears her throat quietly. "I'll… do my best. Usually, it's my partner who helps me with the transference into layman's terms."
The host offers her a pleasant hum of amusement. "Of course. Please, go on as best you can."
"Well," Brennan begins, taking a deep breath, "the premise is fairly simple. Take something designed by nature and formed by evolution and reprogram it to work for the body, rather than against it."
"We're talking about a virus?"
"Basically, yes."
She's relieved that there's no need to fill in the gaping blanks for this reporter as she's so often had to in the past–explaining the scientific processes to others.
"In this case, the measles. Which has now been engineered at a genetic level to be helpful, rather than harmful. I'll try to simplify what would take hours of explanation and borrow the same comparison I used for my partner."
She shifts again in her seat, feeling less awkward. Readying her hands if in need of a gesture.
"If you could visualize your body as… as a highway, and you picture the virus as a speeding car. Say, for example, that car is being operated by a criminal. Imagine the damage that car could cause. However," Brennan goes on, "if you were then to replace that man with someone from law enforcement, you can begin to see a different depiction. And, essentially, that's what we've done."
"Right." The host is eager now. The audience, riveted. "So… how many people have you treated?"
Brennan feels an intermissive weight descend in her middle for reasons she can't explain. "The… the initial trials were… performed upon a willing host." Absentmindedly, her fingers massage the inside of her elbow, over the syringe marks hidden by her sleeve. "Upon lack of negative side effects, we then began to treat multiple patients in the DC area. An estimated four hundred and nineteen."
"And how many are cancer-free?"
"An estimated four hundred and nineteen."
"So…" the host's eyes widen with unbridled delight, knowing she and this quote will go down in history, "you have actually cured cancer?"
She hesitates. Gaze lowering to the floor as a bittersweet sensation washes over her. "Yes," she answers finally, voice quiet but laden with emotion. "We have."
The remainder of the interview is a blur. All the sounds surrounding her are muffled, and she can barely discern the fervent questions from the rushing in her ears.
"Bones!" He makes his way over to his retreating partner, navigating through the small crowd in the television studio. "Bones!"
Hearing his identifiable voice above the calm din bellowing for her, Brennan slows until he can catch up and begins to walk in pace with him. "You're late?"
His face scrunches and regards her warily, sensing he is in trouble. "What? No, you said to pick you up after four. I'm actually early, if you'll notice." He proceeds to jab at his wristwatch while assuming full charm-mode. "Three forty-one."
She recognizes his sweet beguiling as an effort to get on her good side. What should have annoyed her is found only endearing. "I'm not mad, Booth. I was just hoping you'd arrive before I went on and spare me the interview altogether."
"Oh." His face falls slightly in mild puzzlement as he keeps stride with her. "Well, you were great, by the way. I caught most of it. I don't know what you're so worried about."
"Booth," she shakes her head, looking dispirited. "I don't like doing these television interviews. I agreed to head this research for my own motivations. None of which include international recognition and Nobel prizes." Frowning, she tries to keep the anxiety from her voice. "I'm not even certain of my continued espousal toward this entire situation."
"Remember that thing I said about definitive tones?" he reminds hopefully, gesturing animatedly with his hands. "Just because you say it that way–"
"Espousal can either mean support, keenness, enthusiasm… do you want me to continue?"
"No, that about covers it. Thanks." A grin flashes as they pass through the exit, making their way outside. "So about–"
"I have a bad feeling."
His step falters at the gravity her attitude retains, but otherwise keeps up with her. "Since when do you sense disturbances in the Force?"
"Booth." She stops in her tracks and whirls to look up at him, eyes pleading. The sun highlights her auburn hair in the cloudless day.
His features soften dramatically at the expression she wears, regards her sincerely. "Hey, you're the smart one," he reminds, fully prepared to hear her out. "You want me to arrest someone, or what are you thinking?"
A warmth blooms in her chest at the honesty behind his words–not to mention the mirthful fact he's ready to detain someone on her word alone. Feeling anxious, she takes her bottom lip between her teeth. Clear eyes wander.
It's a full minute before they find his again. He's concerned to see her so on edge. "I'm thinking we pushed too far and too fast."
"Bones, you can't just sit back and wait for something bad to happen." His eyes are soft, understanding mixed with elucidation. "Things happen, that's true. But it's not always something to fear. Do you realize what you've accomplished? How many lives you're saving? Have saved?"
"It feels wrong, do you understand?" She's adamant, nervous. Her hand finds his arm, touching, emphasizing. "I can't explain what I've never experienced. Never known. All I'm certain of is this bad feeling and the notion that we're about to pay the pauper."
"Piper," he corrects quietly. He feels the waves of stress rolling off her form like a fog front. This isn't his department, he doesn't know how to help this time.
"Either way," she presages, "someone will be paying something. We'll all have to answer for the consequences."
Her gaze falls away from him, just as everything else begins to drizzle away. Pictures fade, sounds ebb, until there is nothing. Brennan's tone is rueful–no longer able to distinguish between dream and memory.
Her own voice haunts from within, murmuring softly to her soul.
"Starting with me."
November 13th, 2009
More than a month on the run.
He's more than sure they'll have some form of FUDE alert out on him–his name and face posted on every law enforcement hotlist known to the United States. One of their weapons gone rogue. Together, they're probably both on the deep six file.
After stealing his own issued vehicle from the Agency garage, they'd left the city, gathering supplies which are now dwindling in quantity. He'd filched the large SUV both because it was familiar, and that it was spacious enough to keep them safe at night while providing shelter.
Booth really hadn't wanted her to join him on the trip back–fully aware of the danger it poses for each of them. But of course, she'd insisted. Somewhere written, there is a sacred law that declares Seeley Booth physically incapable of denying Temperance Brennan anything. And, if he has to be honest, he doesn't entirely mind. He treasures her company and finds an easiness to her presence.
Especially now. Though the circumstances are vile, they've only grown closer.
Early on in their renegade declarations, he'd suggested that maybe she dye her hair, even though the thought of never seeing her true shade again had upset him. She'd only offered an absent nod, looking more than a little distracted.
They drive now in silence, toward the nation's capital which doesn't appear so welcoming as times before.
It's no longer Home.
Booth tries to consign away the less optimistic thoughts and focuses instead on the road, tightening his grip on the wheel. He can feel her upset. And not for the reasons one might think. They're both scared, both tired. But he knows the reason she grieves most is because she's had to leave her family. Both by blood, and chosen. The very act she's abhorred her entire life, she'd been forced to carry out. He knows it kills her.
When Brennan speaks for the first time in twenty minutes, he's a little surprised.
"Won't they recognize your plate?" The question is calm. A filler to the silence.
He glances briefly at her before turning his eyes back to the road. "They're probably still looking for us in the city," he agrees. "I'll park the truck near the outskirts, somewhere out of sight. We'll go on foot from there." Hopefully the law enforcement agencies have more pressing matters than two fugitive partners. Booth knows someone will recognize them, especially if every effort is being made to hunt them down. He's used to this. But not her.
He hates the thought of people hounding her, tracking her. With luck on her side, though, she has him. He knows just how to counter each of their every move. They've trained him for this, now he's using it against them.
Something less familiar is the dark raven tresses that substitute for natural auburn. It makes her clear and brilliant eyes stand out even more–two turquoise stars shining past the pale and the black. He's still not used to it.
Adjusting the baseball cap on his head, he once again directs his gaze to the road through the darkly tinted shades he wears. It's becoming somewhat difficult to see clearly, given that the sun is low in the sky and it's late into the evening.
They could seek supplies in another city, but he wants to check up on Parker. Rebecca will most likely call the authorities, but he plans to be gone well before they can arrive.
He's still hoping she'll surprise him and simply allow him the favor of seeing his son, but in the back of his mind, doubt keeps him cynical.
He misses his boy.
He's certain Brennan doesn't see those tears at night. But she looks at him now. Knows what he's thinking.
He's about to question his partner on whether or not he can talk her out of making this little side trip with him. That's when the ripple of unease slowly begins to creep over him. Brow furrowing, Booth is quietly on alert.
Where's all the traffic?
It isn't long before his companion realizes the same. She turns to him, eyes questioning. While there are indeed vehicles on the street, whichever ones aren't parked at the curb are left deserted in the middle of the double lane. No pedestrians pave the walkways.
The nation's capital is empty, empty, as far as the eye can see.
Booth has slowed the Tahoe to no more than a crawl as he and Brennan take in the deserted city with looks of eerie astonishment. "What the hell…?"
Plastic biohazard sheets hang from towering apartment buildings like loose cobwebs. They billow lazily in the gentle wind. Every diner or downtown dealership store exhibits at least one shattered window, and chairs and products are thrown askew and left without care. Caution tape strews just about every small house they pass, torn and flapping. A child's bike lay battered, abandoned, in the middle of the street.
DC is a wasteland.
Booth snaps out of his reverie first when he feels her small hand close over his own. She gazes out her window at the city that lay in ruin with wide eyes. Her expression is traumatic. Moisture slowly wells at their corners.
"Booth," she whispers, unable to look away from the devastation.
The word is swallowed by the silence.
What has happened?
He feels his chest tighten with dread, but returns the hold retained on his hand. Slowly, he removes the sunglasses with his other, staring out in disbelief. Surprise flashes first, like a burst of light, but it's quickly replaced by something else.
He's about to break the unsettling silence, but she plows ahead, voice trembling. Desperate.
It's not an order, but a plea.
"Take me to the lab."
"Bones, slow down!"
Booth, after parking the truck outside the Jeffersonian, retrieves the Beretta from his shoulder holster before jumping out of the vehicle. A bad feeling slowly begins to claw its way around his core, but Brennan is already dashing up the way. Hair streaming behind her in a dark ribbon. Breaths gasping in desperate sprint.
The sky is darkening. Clouds roll in with the thunder. Not rain, not snow, but a mixture of the two. He barely registers the drops of icy precipitation on his face and jacket in pursuit of her.
Heart pounding. Agony building, she fights with each stride against the likely outcome.
Inside, there are shadows. Pale reflections of a past way of life. The illumination the setting sun provides slowly gives way to the cerulean glow of the moon. The shadows of the lab, however, paint a perfectly desolate portrait.
Examination tables lie overturned and forgotten. Computer screens are blank and unresponsive. Several fluorescent lighting fixtures hang by only one chain, swaying brokenly in the still air. The entire scene that lies before her is equivalent to a strong, physical blow.
The empty laboratory feels as if it's spinning, her world crashing down around her. She has not known pain. She has known a family's absence. A father's abandonment and trial. She's known the loss of friendship. She's known her partner's blood, staining her clothing and hands as he lies dying in her arms. She has known copious amounts of fear. But nothing like this.
Nothing like a Home destroyed.
It's new, different. A new kind of pain.
Slowly, tears spill down her skin over gaping shock. She exhales once, and she's not sure she can complete the cycle. Finally, she registers his gentle hand on her shoulder, forcing the air into her lungs.
"Temperance." He speaks softly, so quiet and low, trying to convey his deep sympathy in the single spoken word. He hurts for her.
"They're gone," she whispers. Her head barely shakes around the overt denial. "Everyone is gone…"
Her voice alone betrays the edge she feels herself hanging on.
Where is her family?
He reaches out to her, feeling himself being pulled in by her common deductive reasoning. There has to be an explanation.
Where is everyone?
He's about to reply when a long distant clatter sounds from the exterior of the building. Both partners turn, alert, toward the disturbance past the entrance doors. Outside, the light shower of freezing rain has grown heavier.
Through the din of calming rain, another sound entirely reaches their ears. A barely discernable echo, but present nonetheless.
Cautiously, he begins to move for the doors with Brennan following closely at his side. "Stay behind me." Quietly. Distractedly. His stare is fixed on the doors. Heart thumps louder, gut on fire. Warning him. It's never wrong, not when it matters most.
The unfamiliar and foreign sound gives him a chill that he can't explain. He feels Brennan's arm brush against his, and knows it will do no good to repeat himself.
The sound grows a little louder, but the added volume only makes it stranger than before.
"What is that?" She speaks quietly into the air, eyes shifting around with unease.
He steps slowly to the solid, polycarbonate doors of the lab, looking out into the night through the rain. All that greets him is vast abyss and the sight of his Tahoe, parked directly across from where they stand indoors. Even the shadows are still.
Still, he waits. His sniper's patience is almost infinite, and his trained senses–finely honed–are stretched to their maximum ability. But again, they are met only by the barren night. His brow knits in deep concentration, a frown marring his expression. Whatever it is, he doesn't like it. He's about to voice this supposition to his companion when the chance never comes.
A human-sized mass suddenly collides against the solid door plate with a thundering slam, making the clear barrier shudder.
"Shit!" He draws his handgun again, aiming for the threat and immediately putting himself between the doors and Brennan, who had screamed behind him.
Behind the glass, two feral gray eyes glare with harmful intent. What was assumingly once a man had thrown itself into the barrier, leaving a smear of blood behind.
Its flesh is sickly dyed and nearly transparent, blue veins visible underneath. Tattered clothes hang haphazardly off a rail-thin body and its feet are bare. Further back, more shadows begin to fade out of the fog and slowly make their way toward the building.
The thing takes a step back, opening its maw and emitting a loud, animalistic scream, saliva dripping as it snaps its jaws at the pair inside.
It wants in.