Author's Note: Onward, children! Should be able to get another chap up today, too. I'm onna roll.
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!
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A GAUNTLET IS THROWN
*
I've got this feeling that there's something that I missed
Something happened that I never understood
Every second, dripping off my fingertips
Wage your war
Another soldier, says he's not afraid to die
A clock is ticking, but it's hidden far away
-Somewhere a Clock is Ticking-
August 18th, 2010
Shunk!
The bolt slams out of the barrel, biting deeply into the concrete floor. Particles of dust rise in a flurry cloud, swirling, caressing the atmosphere, only to settle a second later. Reaching down, Booth takes up the nearby cable lying harmlessly slack in his fingers and slips the eyehook over the bolt.
At the dark entrance of the warehouse, he billows a heavy black canvas, stretching it carefully across the air. It floats down over the contrivance he's just set. Brennan works beside him after he's finished, stringing the cable through measured links in the fabric. Draws out a healthy sized loop at the very end and hands it off to her partner. She watches as he hauls back and hurls it high above them until it cascades across the brick overhang. Onto the bridge that stretches over the doorway.
She waits for him while he scales the structure and chooses his counterweight. The backend of a rusted old transport trailer slowly peeks over the edge. Its only two wheels roll over the shelf until its cable pulls taut over the bolt, groaning its strain.
Squirting the neutralizing fluid over his jacket he's laid out on the ground and hers, he casts a glance her way. She stands near to the truck, recovering a small kit out of the glove compartment. She's unusually quiet today. Clearing his throat a little louder that casual, he shrugs a shoulder. "Totally foolproof, Bones. Trust me."
Her head turns and her eyes fly to his. "Don't say that," she chides him, concern making her brow knit together.
He tosses her a smile. "Why, or I'll jinx it? Yeah, that might be a problem if it weren't entirely foolproof. Measure twice, cut once."
"The Titanic was said to be unsinkable," she reasons, giving him a stern look. "See what arrogance got them?"
A drawn-up eyebrow from him. An answering frown from her. He marvels again at the effortlessness of their unspoken communication.
Grinning, he tosses the jug of scent-b-gone into the back seat. "God couldn't sink this ship. Isn't that what they said? Claiming something like that?" He shrugs, eyes wide. Brow climbing into his scalp. "Just looking for trouble."
She rolls her eyes at him, turning away. "Taking your approach into consideration, why wasn't the speaker simply struck by lightning?"
He frowns at her little jab, but leans against the vehicle next to her, crossing his arms over the black t-shirt he wears. Heaves a sigh. "Less poetic, maybe."
She's barely heard what he's said. Her focus is too entirely drawn to the small case in her hands. Braves the inevitable. Opening the lid, she runs her fingers over the syringe. She hates this. A nagging fear settles in her middle that she wishes would go away. Fleetingly, she wonders why he's impervious. Gaze falling momentarily upon him, she considers this. True, he's a strong man–a good immune system, no doubt. She knows that if she were to ask him, he surely won't know. Still… she can only speculate. Perhaps there's a reason it's just the two of them.
Partners. They needed each other. Could survive together.
A miracle? she's tempted to wonder.
She looks away. Though the very idea is illogical, the gentle comfort it brings she can't ignore. He's told her everything will be okay. She has to believe him. Trust him. She does, implicitly.
Taking a short breath, she's ready. He reaches over and takes the waiting syringe from the case, sighing resolutely. "Today, Seeley Booth plays the bait," he comments with an air of regret. Making a fist with his left hand and keeping his elbow relatively straight, he poises the needle over his skin.
He hesitates though when her hand closes over his. "Let me," she says softly. He meets her eyes, wordlessly conveying his calmness and surety to her. Nods, finally. She procures the tool from his fingers and gently takes his forearm in her left hand. With the other, she carefully presses the needle into the soft skin of his inner elbow.
She watches sadly as the tiny cylinder slowly fills with his lifeblood, the deep red stark against the rather colorless day.
Finally obtaining as much needed–any of him sacrificed is too much–she withdraws, separating the capsule from the syringe. Massaging his arm briefly, he bends down and scoops up his jacket, shrugging into it. He hands the other to her. "Ready?"
Feeling herself nod, she reaches out to him, touching his arm. "Be careful," she insists, blue eyes sincere and resolute. Her voice betrays the fear for him.
He mirrors her gravity. "I will." Something in her eyes reveals the hesitation and he catches it. Holds it, placates it. "Look, Bones–really. You and me both, we'll be out of harm's way and safe in the light. I'll stay back a ways, and you can be the one to play whack-a-reaver. I'll have your back. Okay? I'll be careful, I promise."
Despite the dreary situation, she feels herself smiling at his words. He really needs to stop referencing pop culture. At least now she gets most of what he says. "Alright." She accepts her jacket from him, slipping it over her shoulders comfortably. He issues her an extension of his patented charm, nudging her easily as they make their way back to the entrance.
"No worries, Super-Squint."
Passing under the crane arm stretching above them–acting as a specific center of gravitational pull–she takes position atop the hood of a BMW. Shifting the weight of her rifle for better leverage, she observes him approach the yawning entrance of the warehouse. Crouching down, he underhands the tubule of blood forward, watching it roll to a stop within the snare's catch. Palming his rifle around and taking a step further, searching the shadows, he brings the butt end sharply down. The capsule shatters, dark liquid seeping into the black fabric around the cable.
He moves away and she exhales the breath she'd been holding. She grips her weapon tighter in disquieting anticipation as he stands a short distance to her right and back.
Now, they wait.
Keeping her focus strictly on the dark entryway looming straight ahead, she hears him draw the bolt back on his rifle in guarded preparation. They're both alert, and the background noises dissolve from their minds. A light breeze picks up, lifting a few auburn strands across her eyes, but she doesn't move to brush them away.
He's teaching her–everyday it's something new she learns. As a sniper, his patience extends almost infinitely. He shows her how to keep her breath even, her pulse down, and her hands calm. No longer do her investigative hands quiver with a scientist's precision or a huntress's thrill. He shows her how to keep them steady.
Little by little, she's learning by him. She recalls her close studies of her partner. Whenever he works, or when he hunts, his hands are the stillest tools she's ever seen. She's all too happy to be taught. And the apprentice slowly becomes like the teacher. They become–she blinks in distraction–one. She pushes the inviting thought away.
It often holds the same results when reversed. Despite his backward tendencies toward anything technological, she often recalls pleasurable sessions over her laptop, challenging the other over defending titles when their entertainment habits called for a fresh change in routine. When she confronts him with an arched brow and a game of computer solitaire, he'll sometimes laugh and wave Halo or Crash Bandicoot in her face. Often times they engage in playful combativeness over the Xbox wired to the bigscreen in their living room.
She'll submit him to lectures on Bandicoot's subtle relevance to mythology, and recite persuasive articles on theorized alien life. She pretends to be largely oblivious to his discomfiture and desire to just collect his crystals or shoot the bad monsters. Eventually she relents and appeals to his competitive streak instead, stealing all his fruit and weapons.
But whenever she asks, he's playing Tetris with her on her laptop. She'll silently pout whenever he's triumphant over her, and on growing occasion when she were to defeat him, he whines like some giant toddler. She can think of nothing better.
A dull scratch in the shadows of the warehouse seizes their interest. Hugging her weapon tighter, she stills–just as he's taught her–and waits. Behind her, Booth shifts, keeping his rifle poised and at the ready.
A muffled footstep echoes within the darkness, then silence.
With a sharp snap, the snare catches. The trap sprung.
Away and parallel to them, a heavy metallic moan resonates as the suspended trailer begins to plummet toward the street. It smashes through a delivery truck windshield. The black canvas whooshes as it wraps around its prey and shoots into the light.
The infected host, screaming its protests in shrill potency, is pulled–encompassed by the protecting fabric–into the day. Speeding across the line of cable, slamming into indiscriminate vehicles hindering its course, it at last whirrs to a tentative stop directly beside her. The thing flails and screeches chaotically within the black cocoon like a trapped feline. The fabric flaps and flutters like the wings of a bat. Booth keeps his covering aim steady as she draws back and slams the stock against the writhing creature within. It emits a loud grunt and then all is quiet. Exhaling her relief, she looks to her partner, who remains largely hesitant to lower his weapon.
A screaming roar demands their attention back at the warehouse entrance. Whirling in startled reply, they can only watch as an infected male charges forward, past the threshold of the warehouse, baring its teeth and snarling at them with utter odium.
Rays of light ignite the patterned maze of blue veins bulging beneath its sickly face, singeing the flesh and creating tiny blisters that hiss in the air. Small swirls of steam rise from the fresh sores. It ceases in its bellowing and now falls into an eerie calm, glaring at them with menacing gray eyes clouded with KV. Even under the pain it must be suffering, it doesn't move. Booth keeps his aim on the potential threat firm, but notices the familiar dark green of the military jacket that bedecks the thing's broad shoulders.
For a reason unknown to him, Booth doesn't like that. He doesn't like that at all.
It sees the enemy. Through the broken mind it possesses–taken over by instinct and blind rage–it recognizes the threat. Its racing pulse thrums in its ears, its breathing quick.
It had been a man, once. Now it is merely an animal–living only to survive, to eat, and to hunt. It is the alpha male of its group.
Its name had been Cortman.
It never remembers its name. It remembers nothing of life. But in the haze of feral instinct, its mind holds a superior intellect. It can rationalize–no matter how small a fraction. This means it can plan. Contrive.
It can learn.
Its eyes fall on her. A flicker of recognition in its fragmented memory–it knows of her. She is a Day Stalker. She threatens their existence, wants to destroy them. It won't allow that. It feels revenge. It feels an anger deeper than instinct claw at it. She's protected. Uttering a low growl, it turns its eyes to the second Day Stalker. Him.
It has a plan. To get to her–to get to Mother–the one who stands in the way would have to be purged. With the threat gone, it can at last be free to break her. He will be removed from the line of fire. Torn from the battlefield. With no shepherd, the sheep would be helpless against the wolf. And then it would seek her.
Huffing an angry growl, the infected male utters a final snarl before retreating back into the shadows.
September 31st, 2009
He decides that being in a position of greater influence matters exactly naught when panic seizes the hearts of those in need of protection and higher advisement.
He isn't sure why he keeps coming to work. He supposes that perhaps he comes for information. Sitting at home won't help him find her. Sitting at home won't do her any good. Her safety and care demands him sitting at this desk every day, working and collecting information. Devising some sort of plan to keep her safe and even hidden–if that's what it comes to.
But still, staring out the window now and into the world below, he can't help but feel useless against the fear assaulting each and every one of them. In the back of his mind, he hears another agent enter his office, muttering a greeting before dropping what Booth guesses as mail atop his desk.
When he's alone again, he considers even bothering to read it. He stands by the window for another whole minute before heaving a sigh and moving around his desk. Without sitting, he begins to rifle through the individual slips of paper and envelopes. Nothing gains his remote interest until a familiar seal catches his gaze, burning into the backs of his eyes.
The letter comes from Langley.
Why is he getting a letter from Langley, in association with the District of Defense? A growing unease begins to develop in his middle, and he swears the temperature of his office drops. Something isn't right. Something is very, very wrong.
Steeling himself against the flutter of worried emotion assailing him, he turns the slip of stationery over in his hands and tears open the envelope, unfolding the letter.
He begins to read.
The moment he'd received that formal order, his fate was sealed.