Damned if You Do - 13 and John
As long as he lived, he would never forget the sound she made, the scream, the whisper, the way her dark eyes were wide and unfocused, as they gazed to him, past him, into a world that had no analog to him, no understanding. There was nothing he could do for her, nothing he could do but be there for her in the way that she hadn’t been for him, but all resentment was choked out of him in the knowledge of what he had done. There was wetness soaking into him from where he held her, and his stomach flipped with a creeping nausea that he had caused this, caused the rough whispers that ached from her throat, felt the useless flexing of her muscles, an internal writhing, and couldn’t comprehend the agony that she was in. Couldn’t save her, couldn’t help her. Could just hold her. Could just offer his devotion, head bent over her as if cradling a sick child, tears streaking his cheeks, heavy and unashamed.
“I will,” he whispered, his own voice wrecked and trembling, and he knew that it might be a lie, hadn’t the faintest idea of where Mari was, and hadn’t seen her either since he was a kid. Like Xio, she had faded, like a well-loved, well-worn photograph, a distant memory of warmth and soft kindness, of a smell like dried flowers and a smile that aped at the sun. He had no conception of whether or not he could find her again, but Xio deserved some kind of security, some kind of understanding of his resolve. He would bend his head to the task, he would find her if he could, and that was enough. That had to be enough.
I love you.
Callused hand ran gently through her hair for another moment, loathing his selfishness as he smiled down at her, felt her drift. He leaned down to kiss her brow, his eyes closing, and face contorting with grief with no one there to see. He moved his head away just as he placed the muzzle to the side of her head and pulled the trigger.
The sound was loud. Louder that he could believe, up close. He could feel her body spasm, and then quickly go limp. A semi-automatic weapon to the head was a quick, nasty death, but she had already been gone, and he couldn’t remain as selfish as he had been, let her suffer, drag on, because of his cowardice, because of his fear, because he wanted one more minute, moment, second with her, and couldn’t bear to let her go.
He didn’t weep. Didn’t shatter. Felt numb. Held her body for a little longer with tears running down his cheeks, until he felt her start to become cold, warmth finally starting to desert her, and then gently placed her down. It took some hunting to find her jacket, but he did, cast off in her madness, and he knelt beside her, straightening twisted and purposeless limbs, a shaking hand closing still-open dark eyes. He pulled the jacket over her upper body and face in a makeshift shroud, and stood. Would have carried her, but there was someone he had to get back to, someone he could still help, even if he was the last person who should ever lend his protection to anyone. With dead, shattered eyes, he gazed down at her body, and put a hand gently on one still shoulder.
“Kwaheri,” he whispered.
Until I see you again.
He left the Lady, empty, glinting beside her.
When he got back to the little girl, she wasn’t alone, there was a man with her, and John felt an intensity coil back into exhausted muscles, ready to confront. It only took a moment to realize, however, who the other man was, with the eager, exultant way she had thrown her arms around him. The other man, clearly her father, uninjured but clearly shaken, was only further shaken by the appearance of John, blood-spattered and broken-eyed as he was. Aggression boiled, one-sided, as he put himself between John and the little girl, but the little girl tugged at his hand, dissolving into furious whispers. All John could catch was a few words, scary lady and the nice man, and the father’s manner slowly changed. Didn’t offer his hand, but offered his thanks, which John took in numbly. He didn’t say a word to it, and didn’t give his name when it was asked for. “Take care of her,” was all he said, numb and avoidant, his words slow and hesitant as a man just learning to speak.
It was easier than he thought to turn his back on them and walk away.
He wandered for a long time, aimless, without any sense of direction, mind blank, blood drying slowly on his clothes. He could hear the sound of sirens, the arrival of a few cops on the scene, their voices not too far from where he had been heading. Would have been indifferent to it in any case, and indeed, was planning to wander past him, when he heard a familiar voice. Deep, even, clear. It cut through the chatter, the chaos, and even in John’s dissociative state, he recognized it, would recognize it anywhere.
13 was in trouble. Outnumbered, and with several Max Tac accosting him, hands already on their weapons and seemly jumpy as well. It wasn’t a huge stretch to think that with a definite understanding from the agents that cyberpsychosis was at the brunt of the carnage, that someone with augments wouldn’t be a potential threat. For a moment, John gazed at the scene with exhausted, deadened eyes, but then a tiny hint of something flickered, brief, in their depths. A raw, red anger that nonetheless remained strangely dissociative and calm, instinct mixed with an odd sense of control. Anger, born out of protection, born out of care, for the man before him, for his friend. That love, instinct to protect those who fell under its umbrella from harm made John uniquely dangerous, and he had already lost someone he loved today.
He didn’t think about the risks, didn’t think that 13 should be able to take care of himself, the sight of the weapons tipped something over in his mind, and there was a strategy in it as well. They were far less likely to do anything to a civilian than they would be to someone heavily augmented, an unfortunate truth. Bad press. John had worked as a corp long enough – albeit badly – to understand that. He could serve as a diversion. Could last long enough, distract enough for 13 to get away. He was ready. He knew he could. And if they got a little trigger-happy on him instead of the solo, then…no harm, no foul.
He stood in between 13 and them, without hesitation, and without, at first, saying a word. Blood-drenched, fiery-eyed, and transfigured, his back to 13 and gazing coldly at the officers without any indication of moving, and without a greeting to the object of his protection. Utterly focused.
Finally, he spoke. Chilled, clear, imperatives, that snarled raw and deep from somewhere inside that broad, blood-soaked chest. The sound of his voice would have terrified him, but he was far beyond noticing or caring.
“You are gonna leave him alone. You’re gonna let him walk.”
“Look...I ain’t going to threaten you. You can try to stop me all you want but that is what is gonna end up happening. Just depends on how many of you bastards I gotta take with me. You understand?”
