Some Things Are Personal
For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.
First Blood
In the Valley of the Kings, more than the desert threatens the safety of Rourke's young protege, Helga Sinclair.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind Atlantis: The Lost Empire.
Nineteen-year-old Helga Sinclair woke in the middle of the night. She bit her lip to try and restrain a pained groan. Her leg throbbed as she shifted where she lay. Cleaned and tightly bound as it was, it still hurt. Less than the probably poisoned spikes she'd dodged would have, but her worst injury before this had been a skinned knee. She gasped when she sat up on her bedroll. However, the sight before her drove all thoughts of her leg from her mind.
A man twice her age stood in front of her, his shotgun in his hands.
"Mr. Landon?" she muttered. She tried to keep her voice low so as not to disturb the rest of the sleeping crew. "What are you doing?"
"Shoulda done it from the start." His words slurred together, and Helga smelled the alcohol all around him. "Before Kelly and Pat died. Shoulda done it when I first saw you."
Helga slid back slightly and looked around. If she screamed, would anyone be awake quickly enough to help her? She opened her mouth, but Landon cocked his gun and put the barrel to her forehead. Her voice died in her throat.
"Told the cap' that women're bad luck. Been nothin' but a curse from the start." His body wavered, and Helga prayed for him to stumble. As his finger curled around the trigger, the girl squeezed her eyes shut.
A shot rang out, hot blood splashed on her, and Helga screamed.
It took several moments of screaming and sobbing for her to realize she felt no pain and wasn't bleeding out. When she finally opened her eyes, Mr. Landon was sprawled out across part of her bedroll, a bullet firmly in the back of his head. She screamed again, heedless of the men now buzzing about her.
Only when a strong hand gripped her chin and its partner clapped her shoulder did she quiet. Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at the broad, forty-three-year-old Captain Rourke. She met his eyes and tried to speak, but only a sob came.
"You're safe," he said. He looked completely unruffled, and only his voice made sense to her above the din of others talking. "Just take a breath, Sinclair. You're safe."
"He—he was going to—"
"No one's going to hurt you." His expression softened as he released her chin to draw a cloth from his pocket. He gave it to her, and she wiped her eyes and cheeks. She stared at the dead man's blood on the white fabric. "Not on my watch."
"Why would he—"
"Booze and heat." Rourke stood and helped Helga to her feet. He looked at the other men. "Get this cleaned up." His gaze turned back to the girl. As he touched her arm, he said, "You can sleep in my tent." He cracked a bit of a smile, as if to reassure her. "I'll keep watch. All night."
Helga drew in a shaky breath and released it in a wavering sigh. Without a second thought, she threw her arms around the captain and hugged him.