Tuesday - Crossover
Good morning! momma_66 here to give you Tuesday's theme. Crossover: Ever wondered how the Winchesters would react to Nick Burckhardt? Or what would happen if you mixed the Leverage team with our guys in Hawai'i? Get to prompting and let's find out!
Rules:No more than three prompts to a fandom ( Read more... )
Rules:No more than three prompts to a fandom ( Read more... )
After ten years of prison, it's good to be free. He's been banned from his hometown-Cheever Lake doesn't like it when they think one of their native sons has murdered his parents-but Jake really doesn't mind living out in the woods. There was nothing the authorities could do about him inheriting his uncle's cabin; that was one death even they couldn't accuse him of.
Hunting and fishing keeps him fed. He plants a little garden, canning produce for winter. To pay taxes and the like, he does woodworking that he sells out of the big flea market at Spokane. It goes on that way for a couple years, all very low-key, which is how Jake likes it. Then one afternoon, there's a knock on the door, and Jake Grey opens it to confront a man with his face.
The man standing on the cabin's porch looks a few years younger than Jake, but he could pass as his twin, one who’d seen fewer hard times. His expression belies that. He’s anxious-no, beyond that. Jake's sixth sense, honed to a fine point during his incarceration, raises its head and assesses the energy he's getting from his doppelganger: There's psychic fragility, dread, longing for help, despair that there's no helping him. Beneath it all, poorly masked, seethes very primal terror.
For a moment, Jake wonders if he's somehow splintered and gone back in time. The stew of confusion the young man projects is almost identical to his own state of mind after his parents' murders. There's something else, though. Something darker. No-someone darker. A malignant shadow-self that's separate from the figure who stands there, looking at him with beseeching green eyes. "My name is Tom Hanniger," he says. "I need your help. Please!" he adds when Jake doesn’t say anything.
So much for the quiet life. The guy’s got some mental problems. Jake doesn’t have to be a shrink to know that, but he’s had his own issues, and maybe he can help. He already knows he’s going to regret it, but Jake steps back from the open door and nods at Tom to enter.
“What can I do for you?” he asks as Tom prowls around the living room, gazing at the natural stone fireplace, the bent-wood chairs that Jake’s painstakingly made, the rough-hewn beams overhead. “Have a seat.”
Tom slides a backpack from his shoulders and sinks down into one of the big chairs. He reaches into the pack, and Jake tenses. He doesn’t relax when Tom withdraws a book. The font in red letters on the cover is dripping. The title screams, “Blood On His Hands”. It’s the “true-crime” story of Jake Grey’s past.
Tom’s uncanny resemblance to Jake himself is the first thing that stops him from dismissing the younger man as an unsavory fan-boy. The other is that lingering sense of menace. It isn’t Tom, exactly…it’s more like an unpleasant aftershave, in this case, clinging to his aura with a persistent miasma of evil.
“We found this a few weeks ago and I read it, and I was thinking you’d understand, you could help, maybe you’re the only one who can.” He rattles it out as if he fears interruption.
We? Jake registers that, but he goes for the more obvious question first. “Help you with what?”
“I want you to kill Harry Warden,” Tom blurts. “He’s evil! He-“ Tom stops. He’s gasping for breath, and the terror in his eyes is overt.
“Who the hell is Harry Warden?” Jake demands. This kid wanders in and thinks that because he was convicted of murder, he’s some kind of hitman?
Tom stares into space, then his eyes come back into focus. There’s a predator in the room, as suddenly as that. He lounges back in the chair, expression satirical. When he speaks, his voice is deeper, raspy.
“I’m Harry Warden.”
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