I don't own Ashes to Ashes to Ashes

Sorry about the delay on the update – shouldn't be as long next time, since it's pretty much ready to go (I say that, I'll probably scrap it!)

Anyway, hope you'll enjoy the chapter!

----

Gene didn't know what he had been expecting to happen, really – for the bullet to fly in slow motion, perhaps? To see the victim fall slowly to his knees and see every frame of his facial expression as the metal shred into his skin? But the shocking realization was that, even with Alex's image burning at his irises, nothing was different.

The bullet still sped forwards as fast as it always did, flying true and fast, cracking through the silence of the room like a hurricane, before hitting the kidnapper square in the shoulder, forcing him to emit a loud, choking gasp as his arms loosened on the girl he held, and shock made his body rigid. The girl in his hold stumbled forwards without thought, hurriedly covering the small distance between herself and her father, becoming so wrapped in his arms that, for a brief moment, it was hard to tell who was who.

The kidnapper fell forwards, and, even as Gene's bullet buried itself in his shoulder, the thin, long fingers of his hand closing mechanically on the trigger of his gun, the jolt as the bullet left the barrel jerking his arm and sending it spiralling as another loud, resounding crack followed the noise from Gene's own weapon almost immediately...

It took Gene less than two seconds to realize that he'd fucked up, yet again.

The girl and her father, still clinging to one another helplessly, had both screamed with identical pain and anguish almost instantaneously after the bullet had left the kidnappers gun, but it took only one glance at their faces to know who had been hit, even without the large bullet wound that leaked blood over the pale fabric of their clothing, and the white colour of their skin.

The fathers face was white with fear, stricken with grief, anger and hatred, and rocked with an emotional vulnerability so intense that Gene could feel his heart clench in his chest. The other mans helpless gaze locked on the rapidly whitening flesh of his daughters' face, his mouth opening and closing in helplessness, the only noise that left his lips one of grief and anguish. Gene's eyes travelled further down, towards the vile wound that had burrowed into Alice Tibbett's neck, the same wound that was now bleeding so profusely that the flowery white dress the girl was wearing was fast becoming bright scarlet, the oozing liquid trickling grotesquely down her neck, her arms and her chest.

Gene's gun fell from his fingers, and a moment later, ignoring the groans of pain from the kidnapper, he was rushing forward, sparing only the briefest of glances in the wounded mans direction, just time enough to kick the gun from within the reach of long, skeletal fingers, before he was on his knees beside the girl.

The father was sobbing hopelessly, his grip on Alice's small body rapidly slackening as he attempted to contain his grief. Gene vaguely heard Ray begin to radio for an ambulance, but his mind was awash with panic and pain as he stared at the little girl whose skin was fast becoming icy cold and white as a sheet.

Before now, Gene had watched fathers fall to pieces over their daughters deaths; he'd seen them drink themselves into coma's, and dope themselves so high up to the eyeballs that they couldn't see straight ever again. He'd seen them take revenge, and he'd seen them lose their minds, but never, in all of his years, had he witnessed a father waiting for his child to die; at that moment, he realized how lucky he had been to avoid it for so long.

Arthur Tibbett raised a shaking, trembling hand to his daughters cheek, running large, stubby fingers down her face and whispering his apologies a thousand times, telling her to sleep, to dream, to forget the pain and think of flowers and cornfields. Gene's heart cracked in his chest as the father's tears fell onto his daughter's terrified face, rolling down her cheeks along with her own as she whispered, in a choking, panicked and completely pained, gargling voice; "Daddy, I'm scared."

Vomit rose in Gene's throat, and he had to gulp hard to stop himself, watching in horror and shock as Arthur's hands soothingly caressed the locks of his daughters' hair, just as he might if he were putting her to bed.

"Don't be scared," he told her softly, and his voice was as ragged and choked as her own. "It'll be over soon," he promised, his tone full of remorse and grief, but tinted with tenderness, emotion and warmth. "Very soon, my darling girl," he whispered, "I promise..." He pressed a kiss to his daughters head, rocking her in his arms, clutching her against his chest as the blood from her wound soaked through into his own clothing, staining it dark brown. "Think- think of – think happy thoughts..." he sobbed, "it'll all be over soon..." His breaking voice made Gene turn his head away, feeling guilt and pain stabbing at his stomach, disgust and horror making him sick as dust and pain stung at his eyes, burning like acid and needles and fire as he waited, his heart pounding traitorously fast in his chest as Alice Tibbett's slowed down more and more...

Gene knew the moment had come when Arthur let out a loud, piercing wail, one like nothing Gene had ever heard, nor wanted to hear again; as the grieving father roared with rage and grief, so wracked with pain that he could barely hold himself up, it was all he could do to place his daughter down on the floor, his body falling to the side and lying limp and useless as he sobbed and wept, his yells so heart-wrenchingly awful that Gene could practically feel the knife of grief as it stabbed into Arthur's chest and twisted in his heart.

Biting back guilt and hatred, Gene wrapped his arms around Alice's not yet cold body, pulling her to his chest and nodding for Ray to help escort Arthur from the building, watching as the DS hauled him to his feet, struggling to guide him as he stumbled blindly into boxes, walls, shelves; in the end, Ray had to throw an arm around the other mans shoulders, keeping him within his own grasp as the grieving man shrieked on, sobbing and wailing in horror as the DS steered him out.

Gene watched Ray leave, and then looked down at Alice Tibbett's face; her eyes were closed, the set of her mouth gentle, and apart from the bloody wound at her neck, she might well have been sleeping. The blonde hair at her shoulder was matted with blood, and his first move was to push it away, before pulling her tight against his chest, feeling the limp, still body flop in his arms as he stood up, her warm, sticky blood trickling down her neck and onto his clothing. He didn't so much as glance back at the kidnapper, who was clutching his arm desperately and groaning for help; the only thing Gene could bring himself to think was that he'd fucked up yet again, that for the second time in the course of three days, he had an innocent persons blood on his hands...

Ray was still leading Arthur up the stairs, half-carrying the incoherent man, whose head was turned over his shoulder, his eyes locked desperately on the girl in Gene's arms, tears pouring freely down his cheeks as he allowed himself to be led up the stairs, through the dusty darkness and into the street, where the light was blinding, grating against their irises as they stumbled into daylight...

There was noise, and bustling, and murmurs of conversation, but the moment Gene stepped into the light, it all fell hushed as each officer's eyes fell to the girl in his arms.

"Chris," Gene mumbled, hoisting the girl closer to his chest so that the last remnants of her dignity remained, and they wouldn't see the gaping wound that had torn into Alice Tibbett's neck. "There's a bastard down there with a bullet in 'is arm – if you ask me, it wouldn't be such a shame if one ended up through his head..." He ground his teeth briefly, before continuing to murmur softly, "make sure he's cuffed, and taken out the other way; then get 'im down the station."

"Yes Guv," Chris nodded, pushing through the creaking entrance to the warehouse. Gene's ears strained as he listened out for his descent, but a moment later the thud of his footsteps had died away, and he had to lift his eyes to a familiar face. Ray's jaw was tight, the vein jumping against his cheek, and Gene could only gulp, nod his head and briefly allow himself a moment of comradeship before speaking.

"I fucked up, Ray," he muttered, glancing across at Arthur Tibbett, who was sobbing helplessly for his little girl, wailing and weeping with his back against the wall, his limbs akimbo, as though he cared not for anything but the grief threatening to rip him in two. "Should've let yer shoot the bastard before."

"Ain't your fault, Guv," Ray murmured, but his eyes were averted, and Gene couldn't help but feel that Ray, too, would blame him for this later. His self-disgust roiled in his stomach, and he could only grind his teeth, glaring at the floor, the body in his arms cradled protectively against his chest.

"Yeah, Ray, it is. I should've-"

He was interrupted when a piercing shriek split the air, tearing through the skies and raking across his eardrums like metal claws scraped across his skin; it was a cry similar to that which he had heard down in the basement of the warehouse, but somehow it was worse – it was louder, more shrill, etched with rage and hatred and despair so prominent it was practically unbearable to listen. The sound of the mothers' grief wrapped around Gene, in a cocoon so impenetrable that he could hear nothing but the horrible shrieking, the wailing, the incessant grip of despair so pungent he could barely breathe without the acrid taste of bitter defeat and self-loathing staining his throat and tongue...

He wanted to run away, to escape the sounds of such unbearable loss and upheaval, but his arms were still wrapped around the young girl's lifeless body, still holding in those last reserves of body heat, as though in doing so he might prolong the inevitable, might somehow prevent her death, despite the fact he knew that all life had slipped through her fingers and into the unknown many minutes past. He watched as the stumbling, still shrieking mother came towards him, her arms outstretched, her long-fingered hand stroking down her daughters face with such gentleness that Gene could practically feel it himself. Her eyes shone bright with moisture, her cheeks were stained with running makeup and tear tracks that ended at her chin, dripping onto her clothes and discolouring the pale yellow of her blouse with smudged mascara.

Her face was wrought with crippling pain, her whole body slumped and useless as she fell forwards into Gene, her knees weak and her wails so loud they made him flinch slightly. He stood firm, stopping himself from stumbling as she gently smoothed away the hair from her daughters face, as she pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead and whispered something that Gene was certain he had no right to hear, but that would ring in his head for hours to come.

"Sleep now, my beautiful darling," she whispered through her anguish, grasping at her daughters hand with desperation and pressing a hard kiss to her palm, "the angel's will be with you soon..." She stared at her daughters face for several minutes until, finally, and yet all too suddenly, she glanced at Gene, her piercing green eyes boring into his with need and desperation etched into every fleck of colour that resided in their depths; "Can I hold her?" she asked.

Gene blinked, glancing at the girl in his arms, whose wound her mother had yet to see, wondering why on earth she was asking his permission, when it was her little girl that he held, her own flesh and blood that resided in the cradle of his arms... He met her gaze, seeing the need in her eyes and gulping as he nodded towards a nearby stack of boxes. "You better sit down, love," he murmured, holding the girl closer to his chest as her mother walked slowly and hesitantly towards the makeshift seat Gene had indicated for her to sit on.

"Is it-? How bad-? Is it worse than it looks?" Her voice faltered, her outstretched hands suddenly withdrawn as she glanced into Gene's clouded blue eyes.

"I'm sorry, love," he murmured, holding Alice nervously in his arms. "It's pretty bad..." Her mother nodded, nervously reaching her hands forward and lightly tugging, a silent sign that she was ready, that this was just something that she needed to do... A few moments passed, before Gene gently placed the young girl back in her mother's arms, watching with silent amazement as she pulled the child against her, tucking her into her hold as though they were made to fit together.

The girls head rested against her mother's chest, and Gene could only stare as she rocked back and forth, as though singing a lullaby, even though the child in her arms had been forever silenced by the single shard of metal that had burrowed so callously into her neck.

The mother was sobbing, her tears splashing into the dust-covered blonde of her daughters' hair, silent, and somehow all the more pungent for being so. It was only when he felt the hand on his arm that he looked around, seeing Shaz's concerned face as she glanced at the grieving mother.

"Guv, the ambulance is here," she murmured softly, turning her face away so that she wouldn't have to look at the heart-wrenching scene before them. "They want the parents checked for shock... Maybe you should get-"

"I'm fine," he muttered, reaching for the hip flask in his breast pocket, drinking deeply before turning away, and reaching into his pockets for the cold metal keys of the Quattro. He saw Shaz nod her understanding, but a few moments later he'd driven away, ignoring the looks from his fellow officers, and the blood on his shirt that felt scalding hot against his skin as he sped across town.

He didn't even think about where he was going; fifteen minutes later, he was through the hospital doors.

---

The nurse looked at him with horror, instantly rushing forward when she saw the blood on his shirt and arms, hurriedly calling for various bandages and cleaning salves before Gene shook his head, pushing her aside gently, following it up with a brief flash of his badge, before easing into Alex's room without a backward glance. He ignored the cries of protest and worry from the nurse, stepping inside and dropping his overcoat on the chair, before settling onto the mattress and reaching without hesitation for her hand.

"Wake up, Bolly," he said softly, squeezing at her hand lightly, thumb caressing the soft skin on the back of her hand. He only noticed then that he was coated in grime, dust and mud, as well as the copious scarlet stains that had leaked onto his clothing and skin. He felt awful, unclean and useless, but despite it all he couldn't bring himself to leave, not without seeing her, feeling her reassuring presence. "Bloody hell, Bols, wake up," he pleaded, compressing her hand between both of his, brushing his lips against the fingertips in a tender gesture he would never have believed himself capable of until that moment...

Alex remained still and silent, and Gene felt his resolve crack, felt his determination falter, his throat splintering with pain as he ground his teeth in his skull, feeling the bones grate and the blood pound in his ears. "Bolly," he said again, gulping slightly before squeezing once again at her hand. "Need yer to wake up, Bols... Need yer to tell me it wasn't my fault..." He glanced at the closed door, and at the nurses who were eyeing him through the glass panel with nervous eyes, before he sighed, looking down at his hand wrapped in hers, feeling a renewed lump form in his gullet as he fought for words.

"She shouldn't be dead, Alex..." he said, his voice cracked. "I got it bloody wrong, again..." He rubbed at his eyes, feeling tiredness and exhaustion wrap itself around him like a blanket, lulling him closer to sleep and unconsciousness... He snapped his head up when the door opened, and watched as a small, yet stout lady, with silvery grey hair that hung to her shoulders, waddled in, carrying a bowl of water and a large wad of bandages, which she set firmly on the bedside table, before turning to Gene with a scowl.

"Now, young man," she said sternly, "there'll be none of this- I've nothing against you coming to see the poor love, but this is the second time in two days you've wandered in covered in blood!"

"I'm a-" Gene's retort was swallowed as she interrupted, lifting a long, surprisingly slender finger and pointing at him in a manner that was almost accusatory.

"I know you're a police officer, young man, but that doesn't give you special rights!" Gene bit back the cocky retort that threatened to spill from his tongue, instead opting to listen as the nurse gently pulled his hands away from Alex's and proceeded to scrub them with the rough bandage she had soaked in the bowl of water. "You want to come in here and visit your lady-friend, you'll have to scrub up and-"

"She ain't my lady-friend," Gene glowered, pulling his hands back and moving to shove them into his pockets. He was stopped when she reached out with alarming speed, jerking his hand back towards her and continuing to scrub without pause.

"Well, whatever, or whoever she is to you," she went on, although Gene could have sworn her voice softened slightly, almost sympathetically, it would seem, "you are not to storm in here with blood all over your hands and clothes, and expect to get in here un-checked. Understood?"

Gene blinked, his eyebrows practically in his hair as she continued to scrub at his filthy hands. After a moment's pause, he nodded. "Yes, Ma'am," he murmured, feeling every bit the young man she labelled him as she looked him in the eye, pushing the cloth into his hand and motioning for him to continue cleaning, before she placed her hands on her hips and looked knowingly between himself and Alex. Gene sighed, rubbing the fabric half-heartedly between his fingers as she stood there.

"Now," she said matter-of-factly, "if she's not your lady-friend, what are you doing here for the second time today?"

Bewildered, Gene stopped in his cleaning, meeting her eyes with confusion. "How did you-?"

"I may be old, young man, but I'm not blind! I saw you this morning, and yesterday, and the day before; I don't forget a face! Now, come on, and tell me why on earth you're here? Most folks run a mile when someone ends up in a coma – even the spouses." She raised an eyebrow daringly, and Gene sighed, handing the dirtied cloth back to her and waiting for his hands to dry naturally as he answered, his voice low, accompanied by a soft shrug.

"I 'ave to be," he said, glancing at Alex's face and sighing to himself. "I put 'er 'ere... Ain't bloody leavin' her on 'er own after that." He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out his hip-flask and taking another large swig of whiskey, ignoring the look of disapproval on the nurse's face.

"There'll be none of that in here, either!" She scalded, glaring at him, and then in turn at his flask, just as she began fussing with Alex's blanket. "But from what I hear, it wasn't your fault, and you should be at work." She glanced at the blood on his chest with a raised eyebrow, and Gene sighed in defeat, averting his eyes and looking instead at Alex's perfectly familiar face. How much could he say? He wasn't completely sure himself why he needed to see her as badly as he did, and definitely not as often... it just seemed to be something innate; he was pulled towards her, even when he should be elsewhere, he wasn't complete unless he was here, with Alex... or anywhere, with Alex, he realized. He hadn't felt complete at all until she'd waltzed into his life in a hooker dress and given him an eyeful... Nothing felt right when she wasn't with him anymore, and now she was here, in hospital and completely unresponsive, he shouldn't feel the same – he should be able to draw back... but he couldn't. And there was no explanation that made it clear to him, let alone one that could explain the intricately complex relationship they'd unearthed to a complete stranger...

"She's me DI," he said finally, glancing at the nurse and seeing her smirk of amused derision.

"That much I could've figured from your badges, DCI Hunt," she said calmly, folding the cloth up neatly and attempting, to no avail, to rekindle eye contact. "But your young DS and DC haven't been in more'n the once..."

"Yeah, well they didn't bloody shoot 'er, did they?" He reached again for Alex's hand, subconsciously seeking the reassurance of her familiar touch, closing his long, warm fingers around her cooler ones, and watching as the nurse fussed with the arrangement of the roses at her bedside. She turned back to him and placed a warm, gentle hand on his shoulder, in a way so matronly and maternal that he did, for a brief moment, recall the similar way in which his mother had often patted his shoulders whilst consolidating the loss of a football match.

"I've seen men like you waltz in here with their hearts on their sleeves, son," she whispered, "and believe me this; sometimes, it won't do any more good you being here, than it would have done to leave her well enough alone."

At once, Gene's neck snapped around to look at her, anger blazing in his stomach, but a moment later he stopped, faltering when he saw the understanding sympathy burning in the depths of the nurse's eyes. He turned away, eyes on Alex's sleeping face as he spoke again. "She needs me," he murmured, squeezing her hand. "An' this time, I ain't gunna piss it up... I've done that too many bloody times already."

The nurse smiled, patting his shoulder and looking down at Alex's face as she spoke. "I had a husband once, you know?" she started, voice soft and reminiscent. Gene looked up at her carefully, seeing the creases of her face thin out slightly as she smiled in remembrance. "He was lovely," she said, tears glistening on the surface of her eye. "And then, one day, out of the blue, he just collapsed; he was only forty. Cancer, they said. In the brain..." she wiped at her eye, briefly covering Gene's hand with her own. "I saw him every day, for four years; I always thought he'd wake up. Only, he never did. One day, I got here, and he flat-lined, right there in front of me..." Shaking her head sadly, she turned to meet his eyes, recalling her face to a mask of seriousness and sincere sympathy. "Now, I'm not saying give up on her; but don't go putting all your eggs in one basket, you understand?"

Self-consciously, Gene scratched at his scalp, averting his eyes as he answered her quietly; "she's the only basket I've got, love."

The nurse smiled sadly, squeezing at his arm in a reassuring, if slightly unerring gesture, that made him feel oddly comforted. "Well, then," she murmured, "if you need to talk, ask at the office for Marion; you look like you could use a friendly face." She gave him a knowing look, and then patted his shoulder lightly, leaving the room with a warm, if sad, parting smile. Gene remained where he was, briefly watching her retreating back, before turning back to Alex.

"Come on, Bols," he murmured, moving his chair closer to her bed and pulling her hand against his chest. "You best not be plannin' on dozin' about fer that long; need a good look at your arse in the morning ter get the old engine purring..." He bit his lip, and then muttered, quietly, "could've done with it today, an' all... not just yer arse, I mean, just..." he gulped, locking his gaze on her face and sighing at the now familiarly unaltered features.

"She shouldn't 'ave died, Bols. I messed up again; Ray could've taken 'im out before we even went into that pissing place, an' I told him not to..." He closed his eyes, listening to the gentle beat of the heart monitor and the sound of Alex's breathing, tuning himself into them as he went on, his eyes still shut tight against everything else. "I can't think straight, Bolly..." he murmured. "Didn't want any more blood on me hands, and now I've gotta explain to the Super why we didn't just apprehend the bastard when we had the chance, an' how the girls Dad's gunna have to live with the fact he called us in..." He trailed off briefly, losing his voice for several moments. When he recovered, it was breathy and pained. "'e trusted us, Alex," he whispered, gulping hard, opening his eyelids and reaching out to stroke her cheek with one hand. "All the bastards we 'elp who wind up hatin' us, an' the one family who bloody trusts us ends up with a dead kiddie..."

She stayed still, not responding, and he felt pain grip at his stomach as he went on, his voice soft. "Need yer to wake up now, Alex. I know yer wanna punch me to kingdom come, an' that's fine... just tell me I ain't a complete knob'ead before I cop it, 'ey?" He waited, pausing, looking at her expectantly before sighing. "I'll come by tomorrow, Bols; wake up, 'ey?" He leant forwards, brushing her forehead with his lips once again, before turning away and leaving the room. He ignored the sad smile Marion sent his way as he moved away down the corridor, gulping down the last remnants of whiskey in his hip-flask as he went.

---

He knew it was the last place he should go; every time he was here, he was reminded with a kick to the gut that she couldn't be here anymore because of his own foolish mistake, but somehow it didn't matter; he found himself there yet again, half-cut and practically oozing alcohol from the pores of his skin.

He smelt like a brewery, as though he had bathed in whiskey and beer, and he was still covered with blood and muck. He'd spent the evening in Luigi's, drowning his sorrows at a distance from the rest of the team, ignoring Shaz's attempts to consolidate him, and shoving off Ray and Chris' offers to buy him a drink. He felt wracked with hopelessness; he hadn't even bothered to go back to work, and the Super would probably be after his head tomorrow – not that it mattered. He felt less than three inches tall, and the moment he had seen Ray and Chris's faces, he'd known that, whatever loyalties they had to him, whilst still remaining, it wouldn't stop them realizing that this was still his fault, that little Alice Tibbett would not have died had his judgement been better... He felt cold and useless, and the copious amounts of whiskey that he poured down his throat in an attempt to liberate himself did nothing but lower him further into his stupor of self hatred and bitterness.

More than anything, he wanted Luigi to report him for breaking and entering, to tell him to leave Signorina Drake's flat alone and go back to his own home; but he knew only too well that the stout little Italian had a heart of gold. Initially, Gene had wondered if Luigi even realized the circumstances surrounding Alex's hospitalisation, wondering if he had heard that it had been Gene who pulled the trigger, not the gang of bent coppers and burglars that they'd been trying to stop... He'd found out that afternoon, as he ordered his third whiskey, that Luigi did know, and that he didn't believe that Gene's part had been at all intentional. His gratitude for the older man had swelled in his chest, and he'd had to stop himself grabbing the other man around the shoulders and hugging him. It had taken several moments of reserved gulping and nodding before Gene had even been able to voice his thanks, and by the time he managed it, the older man was already back behind the bar, smiling sadly at him.

Now, Gene stumbled through the doorway to Alex's flat, slumping on her sofa for the third night in a row, stomach down as he grunted something incoherent beneath his breath. Something dug into his chest, something hard and uncomfortable, and he had to push himself back into a sitting position with extreme difficulty to look for it.

There was nothing on the sofa that would cause him any pain; the cushion, the sofa itself, the blanket Alex always left there for him whenever he was too pissed to drive himself home... In reminiscence, he realised that there was a time when he could never have been convinced of his drunkenness- Sam had very rarely been able to coerce Gene into giving over the keys, but Alex? Alex had him on her sofa almost every night for the last few months... Laying there hammered, just for the sake of being close to her, of knowing she was sound asleep in the neighbouring room... He blinked, pushing a hand into his breast pocket and fishing around for its contents, which he tossed onto the cushion before him with drunken flourish, mumbling each items name under his breath.

"Fags," he slurred, tossing the packet of Marlboro in front of him. "Lighter... warrant card... money... warra-"

He stopped, glancing in confusion from his pocket to the warrant card before him. That wasn't his. In his drunken state, he couldn't really recall whose it was; he reached for it, closing a clumsy hand around the leather before flipping it open.

Gene froze.

For a few moments, the fact he'd forgotten whose warrant card he held seemed even more of a betrayal than shooting her in the gut; he shouldn't forget- even before he'd shot her, it had been him forcing the wedge apart, taking her card, suspending her without reason... Even when he was pissed enough to forget his own name, nothing should overwrite the importance of the cards presence in his pocket, above the pounding of his heart, resting as close as possible because there was nothing else to hold in its stead...

His eyes traced almost greedily over the familiar lines of Alex's face; the bouncy curls, the line of her lips, the shape of her nose, the curve of her eyebrows... He trailed one single fingertip down the cheek, eyeing it with a painful feeling of loss in his gut, before suddenly snapping it closed, pushing it firmly back into his pocket and pushing the palms of his hands against his eyes, attempting to erase the past three days from his mind as everything flooded back to him, and his head began to ache.

----

Alice watched him from the dusty shelf of the warehouse, swinging her legs as though she were attempting to go higher on the swings in the playground, apparently unaffected by the dark, dampness of the room, or the chill that hung about like a bad smell. Her florally decorated dress seemed to blow slightly in the non-existent breeze, and though there was no light in the room, she seemed to glow with an ethereal shimmer that sent shivers down Gene's spine. She was oddly clean, her skin sparkling with cleanliness and contradicting the thick fog of dust and grime that hung around her in the air and on the metal shelf itself. She was smiling, though the smile was no warmer than the cold stab of ice that shot through his stomach at the sight of her... He turned away, guilt roiling in his stomach as her voice sounded; it was high, eerie, and terrifyingly unreal, but he turned back to her, compelled by some abstract, foreign force he didn't wish to adhere to, but that he had no control over.

"You're not a very good policeman, are you, Gene?" Her voice was mocking, full of laughter and teasing that was bitterly insensitive, and for a moment he felt like a youngster in a playground, surrounded by bullies, having jibes and digs thrown at him over and over... He'd never been in this position, never felt tears prick at his eyes and wanted to scream his surrender, but suddenly he was five years old, backed into a corner, and all he wanted was an escape... But still she went on, her voice piercing through his mind despite his best attempts to block them out. "A good policeman would have saved me, wouldn't they? Like Ray wanted to. Nobody would have been hurt except the nasty man... Why did you let me die, Gene? I didn't want to die..."

Gene couldn't help it; he looked up into her eyes, saw the green irises that must have been her mother's shimmering with darkness and blame, and his knees trembled. Her face was transformed from the innocence of childhood to the face of an old lady who had seen more horrors in her lifetime than was fair to anyone. Where she should have appeared sweet, childlike, enviably free of responsibility and fears, she now became darker, her eyes filled with ghosts that contradicted the innocent smile and the soft floral decor of her dress. "I didn't kill you..." he whispered desperately.

"Yes you did." She replied, swinging each leg alternately now, smiling coldly. "You shot the bad man, and the bad man shot me... He was going to shoot my Daddy, but he shot me instead. So why didn't you kill the bad man, Gene? He's just nasty, and mean, and not nice... Why didn't you kill the bad man?"

"I didn't wanna kill anyone," Gene whispered, voice cracking as he fell to his knees, staring up at the girl with pleading eyes. "I didn't want to-"

"BANG!" The girl said, cackling wickedly as the noise echoed in Gene's ears, ricocheting through his head as the bullet sounded all over again, leaving the gun with a large crack that shook through the room and resounded in his ears. As he watched, blood began to seep from the young girls' neck, staining her clothes and running over her bare skin; but even as she bled profusely, still she kept laughing.

She showed no pain, no fear, no worry, and the horrified, terrified, petrified sobbing that had left her mouth that afternoon was gone- no tears slid from her cheeks, and nor did she give any other outward sign that she was fatally injured; it was as though someone had told her a joke, one that she found irrationally funny, despite the knowledge that her fellows had stopped laughing, that it was just her shrieking her amusement in the centre of the room...

Gene's whole body shook with anger, his hands trembling as her laughing face whitened drastically, before suddenly, with a final, crashing crescendo of laughter, she disappeared with a loud snap, a sudden whip of air; a moment later, the space on the shelf was filled, and Gene fell backwards onto the palms of his hands in shock.

She was smiling, her teeth white, her hazel eyes glinting, her hair falling softly around her gentle face. She was as beautiful as ever, still dressed in her jeans, blouse and white leather jacket, her makeup fresh on her face, her side unblemished by blood and injury... She was swinging her legs, like the child who had so recently vacated her space, her hands loosely gripping the shelving unit as she spoke, in a voice more terrifying and yet more beautiful than the Alex he knew, her tone uncharacteristic and callous, yet still perfect and alluring as she continued to smile sardonically at him.

"Bang..." she whispered, her voice softer than Alice's had been, but somehow more haunting than the little girl could ever have managed. "Am I dead yet, Gene?"

There was the sound of rapid beating, a flat-line flashing before his eyes, and with another crack of the bullet, the room was gone.

----

Let me know what you thought!

Big thanks to Feline for the beta-ing job :-)

Mage of the Heart