[January 31st] [Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?] The Weak It Ain't For
Title: The Weak It Ain't For
Day/Theme: January 31st - Parting words
Series: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Character/Pairing: The Dying Informant, The Contessa, Greg
Rating: T/PG-13
Cross-posted to ladybug_tales.
Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
The Weak It Ain't For
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are not mine and this ficlet is! This is the first time I've written something this short for the fandom, but that's how the story came. For a long time I've wanted to do a more serious treatment of one of the Dying Informant's canon predicaments, and this morning I was inspired by the episode The Burgled Bugatti, as well as by the 31 Days prompt Parting words. All characters are fictional.
He staggered back to ACME, a solitary figure in a black trenchcoat and brown fedora. It was easy enough to miss him, and most people did. He stayed in the shadows as much as possible, paranoid and fearful of being seen by a V.I.L.E. agent. The encounter he was escaping from was all that he could manage in one day. One hand gripped his wounded side, trembling from the pain. The other reached out, pushing him forward by grasping the sides of buildings as he passed.
His vision was swimming, threatening to plunge him into oblivion right here and now. But he could not allow it. If he collapsed on the street without being able to deliver the information to ACME, the Contessa might very well escape with that car.
The car that had hit him. . . .
Memories of the past floated in and out of his awareness . . . hearing the Contessa's telephone conversation and her latest plans for escape, tailing her through the crowded streets, running after her in his desperation to not lose sight of her. . . .
Drivers were yelling and cursing at him as he barreled across streets without stopping to wait for them. One car coming from the other direction screeched to a halt, the driver opening the window to scream at him. He glanced over his shoulder but then hurried on, growing worried as he reached the next semaphore. The white car was not in sight.
A frown crossed his features. Where was she? How could she have gotten away that fast? Had she turned down the right-hand side? It was a dead-end. He moved to take that road.
But he never had the chance. The Bugatti sped out from the cul-de-sac, the Contessa apparently furious that she had taken the wrong path. In her haste to flee, she did not notice the man in her way. And he did not have the time to leap to safety.
The old car struck him hard, favoring his right side. A scream of pain tore from his lips as he collapsed to the road in the middle of the intersection.
The Contessa screamed too---but not out of any fear for his well-being. He heard her angry spiel as she flew out of the old car, running around to see the damage.
"My beautiful Bugatti!" she cried. "What have you done to my Bugatti?!"
He lay there, gasping in pain as he stared up at her with glassy eyes. She inspected every inch of the automobile, running her perfectly-manicured hands over the body and the paint until she was certain that it did not show the effects of running into a hapless pedestrian. . . .
Or was he only a pedestrian?
She leaned down, examining his dark coat. He wanted to recoil from her foul touch, but he was not able to move.
"ACME Crimenet," she noted, seeing the Triangle of Excellence over his heart. "So, you are one of their pathetic detectives." A cruel smirk played on her lips. "I will leave you here. Whether you are found or no, it is of no concern to me!"
She straightened up, walking away from him and back to the white car. Climbing in, she revved the engine and sped away, taking care not to run into him again.
He continued to lay there, staring up at the sky. Would this be the end? Would he die here, ignobly laying in the street as another victim of a hit-and-run? For such a busy city, this road was unusually empty. In the distance there were sounds---car motors purring, horns honking, people laughing, shoes on pavement . . . but here there was nothing. He was detached from it all, almost as if he had already passed into another dimension.
The afternoon heat was searing into him. Though he fought, his eyes were closing. It would be so easy to go to sleep here. . . .
"Scott!"
His eyes snapped open. The others . . . they were waiting for him back at ACME. They were no doubt worried. It had already been ages since he had last checked in with them. . . . And his communicator was damaged. But somehow, someway, he had to get back.
Getting up that first time was next to impossible. The asphalt was far too hot to touch with his bare hands. Drawing his hands into his sleeves, he struggled to push himself up enough to sit. But a pained gasp tore from his lips and he fell back, staring up at the sky once more. Thick white clouds passed across his line of vision. The sun was pounding without mercy.
He groaned. "If I get out of this, I'm not going to need a tan. . . . Not that I wanted one. . . ."
Maybe he could roll onto his side and push himself up that way. Well, it would have to be his left side; his right was paining him almost unbearably. Had something ruptured in there? What side was his appendix on? Would he be lucky and he would just have a few damaged ribs? Maybe there was even some serious bruising. A bad bruise could potentially cause the immense agony he was feeling.
Again pulling his hands into his sleeves, he gritted his teeth and tried to turn over. His blond curls fell into his face, the fedora hat dipping low over his eyes, but he did not try to push it up or brush his hair away. He was on his left side now, and amazingly, he was able to raise up a bit if he tried hard enough. Bending his knees, he brought himself into a half-kneeling position that relied solely on putting the weight on his left side. It relieved the pressure somewhat, but the motion of getting up was bringing it on in and of itself.
It was a miracle when he got his feet under him and reached out for balance. There was nothing he could grip here, only air. But somehow, slowly, he was drawing himself up. His mouth opened in a silent gasp of pain as at last he stood. His right hand flew to his injured side. How long had he been trying to get up? An hour? Two? The sun was still on him, but it had shifted position, heading to the West.
And he needed to get home. He took a shaking step forward, then another. If he could make it across the street, he could take hold of the buildings to steady himself. One step, then another. . . . A third. . . . A fourth, a fifth. . . .
It could have taken another hour to get to the sidewalk. But though it felt like one, it had probably been ten minutes. He let out a shaking breath as he wobbled. His left hand flew out to take hold of the lamppost next to him.
"Well," he said to himself, "that wasn't so bad. Now, if I can just get home. . . ."
And now he was almost there. He had just stepped into the familiar alley. It was empty, unusual for this time of day. The others were inside somewhere, probably trying to contact him. Or maybe they had gone out looking for him.
He paused by the stairs, a sad smile gracing his features. Would he ever be here again, spending time with his best friends? He never knew if each new mission would be his last. This one seemed like a good candidate for it.
"Sorry, guys," he whispered.
His hand shaking, he gripped the banister as he struggled up the few steps to Greg's door. And a new, sharp pain rushed into his side. He barely managed to knock before the pain grew so intense that he knew he could not wait any longer---he had to lay down. His agonized cry rent the air as he threw open the door, flying through the air to land on the floor and slide across it.
Greg was staring at him, bemused by the sudden, seemingly overdramatic action. "Scott!?" he exclaimed in disbelief.
Scott groaned, struggling to choke out the necessary information on the Contessa's whereabouts. At the same time, unconsciousness was rushing to meet him. Against his will, his eyes were starting to close.
Greg's prodding forced him back to the world of the living once, then twice. But after giving the remainder of the needed clues, he knew he could not hold out any more.
I wish this wasn't the end, he thought sadly, no longer able to speak as his eyes closed again. I wish I could see you guys one more time. . . .
The darkness claimed him.
****
He was still fighting. He was not ready to die! He wanted to live, to stay with his friends. He could not bear to think of how the news of his death would crush them. Especially since none of them would have been there. . . .
The darkness clawed at him, furious. He kicked Death's hands away, fire in his eyes.
A jolt went through his body. He gasped, his eyes flying open as he drew in the welcome breath.
The Dying Informant was alive.
Day/Theme: January 31st - Parting words
Series: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Character/Pairing: The Dying Informant, The Contessa, Greg
Rating: T/PG-13
Cross-posted to ladybug_tales.
Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
The Weak It Ain't For
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are not mine and this ficlet is! This is the first time I've written something this short for the fandom, but that's how the story came. For a long time I've wanted to do a more serious treatment of one of the Dying Informant's canon predicaments, and this morning I was inspired by the episode The Burgled Bugatti, as well as by the 31 Days prompt Parting words. All characters are fictional.
He staggered back to ACME, a solitary figure in a black trenchcoat and brown fedora. It was easy enough to miss him, and most people did. He stayed in the shadows as much as possible, paranoid and fearful of being seen by a V.I.L.E. agent. The encounter he was escaping from was all that he could manage in one day. One hand gripped his wounded side, trembling from the pain. The other reached out, pushing him forward by grasping the sides of buildings as he passed.
His vision was swimming, threatening to plunge him into oblivion right here and now. But he could not allow it. If he collapsed on the street without being able to deliver the information to ACME, the Contessa might very well escape with that car.
The car that had hit him. . . .
Memories of the past floated in and out of his awareness . . . hearing the Contessa's telephone conversation and her latest plans for escape, tailing her through the crowded streets, running after her in his desperation to not lose sight of her. . . .
Drivers were yelling and cursing at him as he barreled across streets without stopping to wait for them. One car coming from the other direction screeched to a halt, the driver opening the window to scream at him. He glanced over his shoulder but then hurried on, growing worried as he reached the next semaphore. The white car was not in sight.
A frown crossed his features. Where was she? How could she have gotten away that fast? Had she turned down the right-hand side? It was a dead-end. He moved to take that road.
But he never had the chance. The Bugatti sped out from the cul-de-sac, the Contessa apparently furious that she had taken the wrong path. In her haste to flee, she did not notice the man in her way. And he did not have the time to leap to safety.
The old car struck him hard, favoring his right side. A scream of pain tore from his lips as he collapsed to the road in the middle of the intersection.
The Contessa screamed too---but not out of any fear for his well-being. He heard her angry spiel as she flew out of the old car, running around to see the damage.
"My beautiful Bugatti!" she cried. "What have you done to my Bugatti?!"
He lay there, gasping in pain as he stared up at her with glassy eyes. She inspected every inch of the automobile, running her perfectly-manicured hands over the body and the paint until she was certain that it did not show the effects of running into a hapless pedestrian. . . .
Or was he only a pedestrian?
She leaned down, examining his dark coat. He wanted to recoil from her foul touch, but he was not able to move.
"ACME Crimenet," she noted, seeing the Triangle of Excellence over his heart. "So, you are one of their pathetic detectives." A cruel smirk played on her lips. "I will leave you here. Whether you are found or no, it is of no concern to me!"
She straightened up, walking away from him and back to the white car. Climbing in, she revved the engine and sped away, taking care not to run into him again.
He continued to lay there, staring up at the sky. Would this be the end? Would he die here, ignobly laying in the street as another victim of a hit-and-run? For such a busy city, this road was unusually empty. In the distance there were sounds---car motors purring, horns honking, people laughing, shoes on pavement . . . but here there was nothing. He was detached from it all, almost as if he had already passed into another dimension.
The afternoon heat was searing into him. Though he fought, his eyes were closing. It would be so easy to go to sleep here. . . .
"Scott!"
His eyes snapped open. The others . . . they were waiting for him back at ACME. They were no doubt worried. It had already been ages since he had last checked in with them. . . . And his communicator was damaged. But somehow, someway, he had to get back.
Getting up that first time was next to impossible. The asphalt was far too hot to touch with his bare hands. Drawing his hands into his sleeves, he struggled to push himself up enough to sit. But a pained gasp tore from his lips and he fell back, staring up at the sky once more. Thick white clouds passed across his line of vision. The sun was pounding without mercy.
He groaned. "If I get out of this, I'm not going to need a tan. . . . Not that I wanted one. . . ."
Maybe he could roll onto his side and push himself up that way. Well, it would have to be his left side; his right was paining him almost unbearably. Had something ruptured in there? What side was his appendix on? Would he be lucky and he would just have a few damaged ribs? Maybe there was even some serious bruising. A bad bruise could potentially cause the immense agony he was feeling.
Again pulling his hands into his sleeves, he gritted his teeth and tried to turn over. His blond curls fell into his face, the fedora hat dipping low over his eyes, but he did not try to push it up or brush his hair away. He was on his left side now, and amazingly, he was able to raise up a bit if he tried hard enough. Bending his knees, he brought himself into a half-kneeling position that relied solely on putting the weight on his left side. It relieved the pressure somewhat, but the motion of getting up was bringing it on in and of itself.
It was a miracle when he got his feet under him and reached out for balance. There was nothing he could grip here, only air. But somehow, slowly, he was drawing himself up. His mouth opened in a silent gasp of pain as at last he stood. His right hand flew to his injured side. How long had he been trying to get up? An hour? Two? The sun was still on him, but it had shifted position, heading to the West.
And he needed to get home. He took a shaking step forward, then another. If he could make it across the street, he could take hold of the buildings to steady himself. One step, then another. . . . A third. . . . A fourth, a fifth. . . .
It could have taken another hour to get to the sidewalk. But though it felt like one, it had probably been ten minutes. He let out a shaking breath as he wobbled. His left hand flew out to take hold of the lamppost next to him.
"Well," he said to himself, "that wasn't so bad. Now, if I can just get home. . . ."
And now he was almost there. He had just stepped into the familiar alley. It was empty, unusual for this time of day. The others were inside somewhere, probably trying to contact him. Or maybe they had gone out looking for him.
He paused by the stairs, a sad smile gracing his features. Would he ever be here again, spending time with his best friends? He never knew if each new mission would be his last. This one seemed like a good candidate for it.
"Sorry, guys," he whispered.
His hand shaking, he gripped the banister as he struggled up the few steps to Greg's door. And a new, sharp pain rushed into his side. He barely managed to knock before the pain grew so intense that he knew he could not wait any longer---he had to lay down. His agonized cry rent the air as he threw open the door, flying through the air to land on the floor and slide across it.
Greg was staring at him, bemused by the sudden, seemingly overdramatic action. "Scott!?" he exclaimed in disbelief.
Scott groaned, struggling to choke out the necessary information on the Contessa's whereabouts. At the same time, unconsciousness was rushing to meet him. Against his will, his eyes were starting to close.
Greg's prodding forced him back to the world of the living once, then twice. But after giving the remainder of the needed clues, he knew he could not hold out any more.
I wish this wasn't the end, he thought sadly, no longer able to speak as his eyes closed again. I wish I could see you guys one more time. . . .
The darkness claimed him.
****
He was still fighting. He was not ready to die! He wanted to live, to stay with his friends. He could not bear to think of how the news of his death would crush them. Especially since none of them would have been there. . . .
The darkness clawed at him, furious. He kicked Death's hands away, fire in his eyes.
A jolt went through his body. He gasped, his eyes flying open as he drew in the welcome breath.
The Dying Informant was alive.