Being Human: Good Times, Bad Times [Hal/Cutler + ensemble] 8/8 COMPLETE
Title: “Good Times, Bad Times”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: R
Timeline: canon divergence mid-Episode 4x08, “The War Child”
Summary: When Cutler comes to Honolulu Heights with the purpose of killing Eve, it is Hal who opens the door. And he doesn’t let him enter. From here on out, it’s either a horror show or a sitcom. Cutler is not quite certain what the difference is. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Epigraph and title from “I Need Some Fine Wine, and You, You Need to Be Nicer” by The Cardigans. Quote from "Romeo and Juliet" by William Shakespeare.
A/N: Oh God, it's over! I don't think I can quite believe it just yet. Don't think I'd have reached the end of this if not for shirogiku, non-canonical and thequestioning. Thank you, guys! T_T <333
Part 1 - Our Heroic Moments
Part 2 - Our Group Decision
Part 3 - Our Dawn of the Dead
Part 4 - Our Double Twattage
Part 5 - Our Emotional Baggage
Part 6 - Our Halk Smash
Part 7 - Our Electric Boogaloo
Part 8
Our Hello-Goodbye
The devastating truth of her words takes a moment to sink in. Cutler feels faint and tells himself it’s because of the wound on his head and the rent-a-ghosting and the fucking explosion.
“Oh God,” Alex whimpers. “Tom!”
Cutler turns his head.
“Sh-shit!”
Tom is bleeding from a gash on the neck. For the thousandth time: people around Cutler must stop getting stabbed, beaten or blown up! How long does it take one to bleed out from a neck wound? Five minutes? Ten? He snaps at Alex to get him some gauze or any clean bandage she can find, and holds the wound with his hand, trying not to think about the sepsis and other unpleasant things that can happen to an almost human being with a hole in his neck. His skin is melting. He grits his teeth. His eyes water. He fails to hold in a pained outcry.
Tom’s lips tremble. He is trying to speak; Cutler can’t unclench his jaws to tell him to stop. Tom makes a wheezy sound that comes out almost like Hal’s name - but no, don’t, please, Cutler thinks, because if Tom does, if he mentions Hal again, Cutler will let go of his fucking wound and let the blood flow, and where the hell is Alex?
Tears splatter down his cheeks. How long does it take for the acid to eat through the flesh and mix with the blood? How long until the toxin is transported in the bloodstream and his insides start cooking? The acrid smell makes him gag.
Alex pops out of nowhere, cradling a load of bandages with one arm and holding a bottle of water in the other hand. She puts it down on the ground, swats Cutler’s hand away and begins bandaging Tom’s neck. Cutler’s breath comes out in ragged gasps alternated with sobs. He manages to unscrew the tap and pours water on his hand. Half of it splashes wastefully over his knee.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, give me that!” Alex snaps.
He remembers reading somewhere that it takes fifteen minutes to rinse an acid burn. Werewolf blood probably requires as much time, but he doesn’t have time to spare. His fingers are numb with pain. He can barely feel the water as it runs over his skin, raw-red and blistered. Alex pours the last of it out and rent-a-ghosts to get another bottle.
“Where is everyone?” Cutler asks. He can’t manage any inflection; his voice comes out disinterested and flat. “You’d think with an explosion like that there’d be coppers and firemen and whatnot.”
“There is a crowd at the end of the street, blocking the road.” More water. He winces and takes a shaky breath. “I think they’re vampires.”
Cutler closes his eyes for a moment. The pain burns all over him, even beneath his eyelids, searing hot. He careens forth, brings his hand up to his nosebridge to pinch it, and takes it away immediately, remembering the toxin. He doesn’t know how clean his skin is yet. He doesn’t feel clean.
“Call Rook,” Alex says.
He snaps his head up.
“What?”
“He should know what to do, he’s the bloody government, isn’t he?” She looks at Tom over her shoulder. “He needs to go to a hospital. Rook wants you to help them, right? So let him help us first.”
Cutler shakes his head mutely. He can’t imagine settling business right now. He mutters that he hasn’t got his phone on him because… because Hal… because Hal-
He can’t speak past the name.
Alex shoves her phone into his hand and tells him to stop being a pansy. He barely resists the urge to throw it at her head. It will do no good, what with her being a ghost, and that’s probably the thing that stops him.
He gets up, barely able to stand straight. Doubles over like a question mark, wondering how he got to survive. She must be thinking the same. She might even be wishing he were someone else, and he hates himself for not wishing the same thing because no matter how much it hurts now, he just isn’t that kind of man.
Alex grips him by the shoulders and gives him a shake.
“They don’t want Hal, they want you! If you don’t do it now, I swear I will rent-a-ghost you to bloody Kilimanjaro and drop you into the crater!”
He’s got no idea if she is capable of that, if it’s physically possible.
“So do it,” he says, but it’s not a challenge. He feels weary, worn thin, and he drops on his knees in front of her. It’s a little melodramatic. He looks up at her and hates her. “Hey, maybe this is your unfinished business. Do it! End this! Get rid of me.”
He’s not the kind of man to give his life for someone he cares about, but he is the kind of man to throw it away on a whim or to prove a point.
Alex looks down at him coldly - and the next thing he feels is her fist connecting with his face. She hits like a truck or at least a minivan running you down.
“You did this,” she says. “You brought this about. This is all your fault.” At this moment, even if she doesn’t know everything, she views him as the heir to the cause of Herrick, Wyndham, Griffin, and many others. “I don’t want my Dad and my brothers to live in your world. So here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get up and phone Rook, and you two will fix this bloody mess, or so help me!”
He swallows a lump in his throat. His nose is bleeding, but he doesn’t dare wipe the blood off in case some of Tom’s remains on his hands.
He nods. Fumbles for the note in his pocket and punches in the number.
“It’s Cutler,” he says. “I need… we need help. Medical assistance.” He looks around for the name of the street. It hits him that he’s got no idea where they are. “The building,” he says. “The building’s just collapsed. Bring some blood.”
“Cutler!” Alex cries out. He almost drops the phone. “I can’t feel his heart!”
He darts up to Tom’s prone body and checks the vitals. Nothing. He was fine a minute ago, and now it’s nothing.
“He needs to go to a fucking hospital,” Cutler mutters. Alex looks at him like he is an utter moron. He frantically drags the basics of CPR out of his memory. “Can you-?”
She stares at him and shakes her head vigorously.
“Annie said never with a living thing. It’s about the only rule.”
“Does he look like a living thing to you?” Cutler snaps.
Alex’s face contorts with something close to fear. He flashes back to the night he killed her. She had the same look on her face, but now it is somehow more pronounced. Back then it was all about her mouth, open wide and pleading, her tears and her body strained in a struggle against the restraints holding her; now it’s all in the eyes, which makes it terrifying.
She places her arms across Tom. Cutler lets go. Alex squeezes her eyes shut. The vein on her temple is bulging. She disappears, and reappears about a foot to the left, her arms still stretched. She gasps breathlessly:
“I can’t… I can’t do it!” She crawls over to Tom and takes over the heart massage. She seems almost professional. “Ventilation! I don’t breathe!”
Cutler pinches Tom’s nose with trembling fingers and leans into him.
“Two breaths, one second each,” Alex instructs.
He covers Tom’s mouth with his, counts and blows, pulls away and lets her resume the process. Rinse and repeat. He doesn’t have to breathe to survive, but he can produce airflow. He’s not that dead yet.
“How long’s it been?” Alex asks urgently.
He glances at the display of the phone. Two minutes. Three. Four. He doesn’t remember when they started. Feels more like two or three hours.
Alex swears under her breath. It’s too long as it is.
He looks at her hands, arranged on Tom’s chest one over the other, and gets the weirdest idea.
“What about direct massage? It’s more effective, isn’t it?”
He’s seen a few assorted medical dramas.
“Are you saying we should cut him open?” Alex exclaims, vaguely appalled.
“You can go through solid objects, can’t you?” He’s had it with tag questions. She can do it, he knows that, she knows that, so he’d rather she stopped mucking about and got to it.
“He’s not an object!” Alex protests.
“His thorax is, I assure you. Do it!”
Alex is ghostly pale, which is ironic as hell, only he’s not in the right state of mind to appreciate it. She presses down on Tom’s chest, her eyes screwed shut and her face scrunched up in frantic concentration. Cutler opens his mouth to hurry her up, though it’s redundant. With a dose of shock and admiration, he watches Alex’s hands sink slowly into Tom’s thorax as if becoming submerged under the water. The sight is disturbing in its unnaturalness, yet morbidly fascinating.
Alex opens her eyes. He can tell by the tension in her shoulders that she has got a hold of the heart and is working on it. Neither of them knows enough about resuscitation to classify this specifically as direct or indirect heart massage, and she pauses every now and then to allow Cutler to do his part. For all he knows, they might be wasting their time or inflicting even more damage.
It feels like it lasts forever. At some point, Alex goes still; then a short, breathless laugh escapes her lips. Her mouth twists with surprised relief.
“It’s beating,” she exhales, and half-sobs, half-laughs as she pulls her hands out.
Cutler reclines on the ground next to Tom, propped up on his elbows. Suddenly the light is too bright and the sounds are too loud, and he wonders if he has been poisoned after all. A grey Lexus whooshes into the street, moving so fast that its wheels barely touch the asphalt. An ambulance follows in its wake. Cutler picks himself up and watches Rook emerge from the car in his impeccable grey suit that surreally matches the colour of the car. Now that their after-action healing drama is over, any and all strength drains out of Cutler. He can’t stop blinking as he watches Rook approach and the paramedics transfer Tom onto a gurney and load him into the car. The sight of that hurts his eyes. Everything hurts, and his head is buzzing. One of the paramedics draws closer to him and starts saying something; Cutler can’t hear him past the hectic noise in his mind. The man takes him by the wrist cautiously and lifts his hand to take a look at it. Cutler lets him.
* * *
There is a sticky spot of blood on the asphalt where Tom lay. The area is cordoned off; Rook’s boys will probably pin the explosion on some terrorist organization.
Cutler looks at the blood stain. It seems to throb and grow, making everything red. Alex walks past him, and he remembers the taste of her blood, though of course it could be anyone’s blood.
“Mr Cutler.”
He looks up, meets Rook’s alien eyes. Eyes this blue are unnatural. Perhaps he’s got a surplus of colouring agent in his system.
“When you and I had our little chat about removing the Old Ones from power, I didn’t mean that you should do it quite so… loudly.”
Cutler fumbles for a reply. Alex exclaims indignantly:
“Oh, you, ungrateful bastard! They were planning to munch down the Prime Minister in front of everybody! Didn’t see you doing anything to try and stop them.” She punches Cutler in the shoulder; he all but jumps. “Say it!”
“They were going to kill the Prime Minister,” Cutler says with a tired sigh. “We had to act quickly.”
“Not quite how I put it,” Alex mutters.
“Oh,” Rook says together with her. “That explains it.” The smile he gives Cutler makes it look like he is dealing with a severe toothache. “I think that perhaps we should discuss the logistics of our collaboration.”
Cutler’s eyes are fixed on Rook’s neck framed by a pristine white shirt collar. Hal could probably drink without spilling a drop over the fabric.
Rook takes a wary step back. Cutler leans forth, captivated, his throat tight with ravenous hunger.
“H-have you got any blood?” he forces himself to say. Except the one in your veins, he thinks. There’s a whole city of blood around them, and the thought is becoming more and more obtrusive.
“Ah, yes. But perhaps-”
“Ask him about my body,” Alex says.
Cutler gapes at her. “What, now?”
“Yeah. It’s as good a time as any.”
Rook watches him curiously.
“I assume one of your Type Ones is here.” His apprehensive look sweeps around Cutler, as if trying to pinpoint the ghost’s location. “Anyway, as I was saying-”
Cutler can only take so many broken records at once. He grips the lapels of Rook’s jacket and pushes him against the car, fangs bared in an angry snarl.
“Her name is Alex,” he says. “I killed her at the Shivargo night club in Barry the day before you took down my videos. We’ve got reasons to believe you tidied up after me. So where’s her body?”
Rook tenses and stays motionless, but he is not frightened. Cutler almost wishes he were; fear is a well-known red flag for vampires, and Cutler is just itching for an excuse.
“Unless there has been a delay in transportation,” Rook says, “the remains are most likely with the family. This is how we handle such things. We send the carcass off with an appropriate cover story. By now, I believe, it may have already been interred.”
Cutler glances at Alex. All visible signs of rage have drained out of her. She purses her lips, which gives her a slightly offended look.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Cutler prods hesitantly.
“Yeah, but… It all happened without me.” She shakes her head. “What’s my cover story then?”
Cutler takes a step back and renders the question. He has to admit that Alex’s timing is quite good: taking care of her business has alleviated the thirst a little. He wonders if she has stepped in on purpose.
“Alex,” Rook repeats, searching his memory. “Barry.” He narrows his eyes for a moment, then supplies: “Drowning.”
“Drowning!?” she exclaims. A wave of her hand, and Rook is flung against the car, the wind knocked out of him. He blinks rapidly, colour drained from his face.
“She’s not taking it well,” Cutler says.
“I can see that.”
“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” Cutler asks Alex. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Non-violent. Normal.”
She throws her hands up, balls them into fists and groans.
“Not like this! It’s all done now, it’s in the past, but I’m still stuck here! With you! With him!” She points at Rook in distress. “With all of this! I have to watch people die, and the only one who can still see me is my fucking murderer!” She kicks the car aggressively. Rook starts. “And tell him to fucking look at me when he’s talking! Just because I’m invisible it doesn’t mean I’m not a person!”
She deflates suddenly and stops to look at the car. Cutler imagines that she could, if she wanted to, tear it apart.
“Do me a favour,” he tells Rook. “There’s two of us here, so could you please acknowledge her presence?” She’s going ballistic, he thinks pathetically, help me.
“Of course.” Rook looks around. Cutler subtly points to where Alex is standing. She seems to have calmed down already, but Cutler still inches away from her. Just in case. “I do apologise.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Alas, it takes time to move on from one’s preconceptions.” Another quick, sharp smile before Rook schools his features into a sympathetic expression. “I know you have been through quite a lot. Do not think for a moment that the Department and the nation will forget what you did today. However, the revolution has not been canceled. If anything, it progresses at a far greater speed now.”
Cutler catches himself thinking that Rook looks kind of maniacal when he gets on his favourite horse. Then again, Cutler used to talk to a wolf puppet, so he’s definitely not one to get judgmental about the man’s antics. A psychologist would have a field day with both of them.
“Pretty sure I’m not the only vampire eager to fill Mr Snow’s shoes,” Cutler says. “Not that I am. Eager, that is.”
“I can hardly find another suitable candidate on such a short notice,” Rook says impatiently. “Your undeniable merit is that you keep in touch with the world and do not underestimate humanity.”
Alex snickers at that. Cutler flashes her a sour look. She makes a show of zipping her mouth shut.
Rook goes on, spinning some bullshit about personal sacrifice and mutual gain and whatnot. They should have a BS face-off.
When Rook mentions the greater good, Cutler discovers he has got a new berserk button.
“Don’t talk to me about the fucking greater good!” he snarls. “People die because of it. I’m not eager to reach an early grave.”
Alex mutters that he is in fact about half a century too late, which is rubbish, he’s only ninety, humans do live that long.
“People die because of many things,” Rook reasons. “And for many things.” He and Eve would have got along swimmingly. “In fact, most of the time it doesn’t matter what you do or how hard you try or what extremes you go to. People still die. What matters is not to let them die in vain.”
“Cheesy,” is Alex’s verdict, “but what he said.”
Cutler gives both of them a scathing look.
“You’d better not be talking about someone I know,” he says. “Now where’s that fucking blood? Or should I start eating people?”
“You could try.” Rook narrows his eyes, reaches into the car and takes out a flask. Nick can smell the blood inside, and it twists his insides into a knot. “When you cut off a hydra’s head, two more will grow in its place. Unless the wound is cauterized.” He hands Cutler the flask. “Would you like to see what is going on? I don’t believe you appreciate the severity of the situation.”
What Cutler would actually like is to punch the annoying bastard in the face, but that doesn’t usually work out for him. Rook starts walking, absurdly assured that Cutler will follow, and Cutler does, against all better judgment. They reach a building at the end of the street and go up to the roof.
“What, you’re gonna push me off if I don’t consent to your little Machtergreifung?” Cutler quips.
Rook beckons him closer to the edge. Several streets can be seen from up here, and most of them are swarming with people.
“News travel very fast,” says Rook. “Local vampires are opposing the remains of the Old Ones’ entourage. There are several fractions that we know of, each of them more dangerous than the other. It was brewing for the past several days. My sources tell me Mr Snow hasn’t left a successor. I’m sure you understand that anarchy is by far more dangerous than any solitary dictator.”
Cutler snickers. Of course he hasn’t left a successor. His successor died with him.
Shell-shocked, Alex watches the boiling rivers of people. The crowd moves in disarray that almost seems staged. It feels as if every vampire in Britain has come to London to be at the epicentre of the upheaval.
Rook shows them the CCTV footage on his mobile phone. Policemen in full protective gear, armed with batons and shields, are pressing an invisible crowd.
“Riots,” Alex whispers. “We did this.”
“We do not normally concern ourselves with internal power struggle among monsters,” says Rook, “but humans are getting caught in the crossfire.” He taps the empty space on the display, confirming that there are vampires lashing out against the police. “The army are on the brink of declaring marshal law.”
If this were America, they would probably be shooting everyone now. That would have actually made things much easier.
Cutler takes a step back. Snow has only been dead for what, an hour? Two hours? Even less, perhaps. How did things escalate so quickly?
“Uh-huh,” he says, and shakes his head frantically. “I’m not…” His throat tightens. It takes a few more attempts to get the words out. “I’m not getting in the middle of this.”
He clings to the last defences available to him. He is a vampire; if anything, he should be down there with his fellow bloodsuckers, not up here, waiting for the Big Brother to make a category traitor out of him. His fingers clench painfully around the flask. Not that he cares that much about other vampires; he just cares even less about the government.
“Mr Cutler!” Rook sounds almost outraged. Well, tough.
Cutler turns around and runs. It hits him all over again that Hal is gone and everything else is gone too and every light at the end of every tunnel is actually an approaching train. He gets downstairs, darts outside and doesn’t look back.
* * *
TEST CARD
Do not adjust your set, normal transmission will resume shortly.
If ever.
* * *
Hiding in a sex shop with Elton John’s Candle in the Wind filtering through the radio speakers in the background is bizarre at best.
“The door was open,” Cutler explains. No, he hasn’t eaten the bloke at the cash register. No, the music wasn’t his choice either. “And you’ve got a lovely view of a gang of chavs looting a liquor shop.”
He points vaguely at the shopwindow. He wants to be looting a liquor shop too, but it’s a first come, first served thing apparently. Right now he is quite content sipping from the flask and feeling sorry for himself.
Alex looks around wistfully. Sex is in the top five of the things she has been deprived of by death, and by Cutler. She is quite vocal about it.
“I thought you wanted power,” she remarks. “You mentioned something about statues in Brazil when you… you know.”
Stuck a tube into her throat and drained her blood. Call a spade a spade.
“Aren’t I allowed to change my mind?”
“Not about this.” She dangles her arms like she doesn’t know what to do with them. “Personally I think both you and Rook are pretty sketchy. But in this case he’s right.”
“Did he put you up to this?” If looks could stake… “You do realise that there’s nothing we could have done differently, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she says. Maybe she means “no”. “So let’s not dwell on what we did and focus on what we should do.”
Cutler scoffs. “Good luck with that.”
He shifts the gauze pads on his fingers, trying to sneak a peek at the burns. He half-expects to see skeletal fingers, Tim Burton style. Perhaps he could win over the vampires by taking his head off and reciting poetry. These violent delights have violent ends, and so on and so forth. It sounds like something Hal would say.
“You saved me,” he says without looking at her. This is something they need to tackle sooner rather than later.
“Not a moment goes by that I don’t beat myself up about it.”
“Why me? Why not Hal?”
Alex huffs in frustration. “I don’t know! I thought Annie would get Hal out.”
Did she see Annie back there? Annie was in no shape to get anyone out, not even herself.
“What is it with you and Hal anyway?”
He doesn’t want to tell her because she would just simplify it, bring it down to the level of some trashy melodrama, but it’s so much more complicated than that. Or so he would like to believe.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” he says stubbornly. “I’m an extra in this story, Hal is-”
The shelf lined with multi-coloured vibrators behind Alex trembles. Somehow she manages to look threatening even with such a ridiculous background.
“This is not a film, for fuck’s sake!” she shouts. “Why are you so bloody obsessed with them?”
“Because!” That’s the short answer. She sends an avalanche of magazines tumbling down on him. “Because,” he concedes, “if the film is shitty, you can just blame it on lazy writing or poor acting or low budget. You can laugh it off or stop watching. You can break the door down easily or have a bloody happy ending, and everything serves a point. Everything is a storytelling device. Nothing happens at random.”
Alex snorts bitterly.
“Let me tell you about my happy ending.” Please don’t, he thinks. “I was supposed to travel the world, find a good bloke, become a concert pianist.” He gives her a quizzical look, but relents before she hits him with a bottle of lube. “Instead, my happy ending boils down to finding some mystical door to the other side because I’m dead! And apparently I can’t proceed with that because cocking vampires are taking over the world.” She laughs hysterically and throws her hands up. “So excuse me if I find it a little difficult to empathize with your failed silver screen dream!”
The last thing Cutler expects from her is empathy. He heads for the door, indicating that he is nine hundred per cent done here. She can do whatever she wants. Exit stage Cutler. Most likely pursued by a bear, but no matter.
Alex moves to block his way. Her arms are folded across her chest, so he doesn’t get the imminent danger clue straight away.
“Thank you,” she says. In hindsight, this should have been the clue. “I keep looking for excuses, and you just keep handing them to me on a silver platter.”
Her fist slams into his jaw, making him stagger backwards in surprise. For the second bloody time today. He punches back automatically. It’s not hitting a woman; it’s hitting a pissed off Terminatrix.
“You hit like a girl,” Alex laughs.
“What does that even mean coming from you?”
She kicks him in the shin. He yelps. She kicks him again, just below the knee. It’s pretty painful. She isn’t even using her ghost powers.
He lunges at her; she grips his forearm, spins him around and flings him into the counter. He grits his teeth, tinged with blood, turns to face her and strikes her in the stomach with his foot as she comes closer. It doesn’t do anything of course. Alex’s body jerks, but she can’t feel pain; she is upon him, and she grasps the front of his shirt and throws him against the shelves. He lashes out and buries his fangs in her neck - only to release her a moment later as a sharp, cold pain shoots through his head. Alex uses his confusion to knee him in the stomach. Well, not the groin at least.
Cutler collapses in a heap on the floor. He feels very impressive, shaking and sweating, lying in the pool of blood, having been bashed up by a girl.
“I guess that completes the beat-you-up part of my unfinished business,” Alex concludes.
He rolls onto his back and gives her a gloomy look that spells: oh, really? He’s so glad to be of help.
“Be honest,” Cutler splutters. “Do you actually believe that I can talk down a bunch of squabbling vampires and teach them to be friends with humans, whom for the record I like only as food?”
Alex is silent. Cutler gets up and hobbles out of the shop. He licks his front teeth clean. He needs some fresh blood and she, she needs to be nicer.
“This is what I bloody despise about you!” Alex shouts. Cutler looks back, waiting for her to elaborate. “You keep complaining that nobody takes your plans seriously and they’re all kinds of perfect and you’re so different from other vampires and you totally deserve all the riches and power and free blood and whatnot - but when it’s all handed to you, you chicken out! Are you afraid of responsibility or what?”
“I’m afraid of getting staked. I think it’s a legitimate concern given the circumstances.”
“Well, I was afraid of getting killed! I was twenty-two! I had three brothers, a Dad who’s pretty much incapable of taking care of them, a Mum who left when I was seventeen. I was going to find her and ask her why the hell she thought it’d be a good idea.”
He winces. “Stop it. It’s already done.”
“Yeah, and I died because of your stupid feud with Hal. You killed me to prove a point or take revenge or whatever. And now you’re telling me you can’t do this without Hal, that his death is a fucking paralytic! Then what the hell was mine?”
What does she want from him? Certainly not an apology. And he can’t bring her back to life, he’s not a necromancer.
But he does feel a little guilty. A little sick. A little horrified.
And very much cornered when he spots Rook waiting patiently by the car across the street.
Alex’s face softens a little. She holds out her hand, palm up, and says:
“Come with me.”
It’s a bit of a Terminator moment, except she doesn’t add “if you want to live” because he obviously does, but he probably won’t anyway.
He takes her hand (this should be a close-up) because if he can’t have nice things, he might as well do some nice things before he faces the final curtain.
“A killer and a victim,” Rook murmurs, shaking his head in wonder. “What a peculiar alliance.”
This makes Cutler smile inwardly. He has always aimed to impress.
* * *
They go for the locals first because, while their ranks are more numerous, their minds are more flexible. They run on fury born of misplaced faith and overwhelming ambition, something that Cutler can relate to only too well.
They don’t do a power walk this time around either, but they make a pretty impressive entrance, staking a couple of security guards with such precise timing that the smoke rising from the bodies creates a veil behind them.
For once, Cutler is in no mood to muck about. His heart is beating a lot faster than it should be physically possible for a vampire, or at least so it seems. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, partly because of fear and partly because of the inevitable excitement that makes the tips of his fingers tingle as new opportunities unfold alluringly before his mind’s eye.
The vampires stare at him. There are rents in his suit, as well as stains of blood that would not pass for human at a closer inspection.
Time to save the world with words.
“My name is Nick Cutler,” he says, and notes proudly that his voice isn’t shaking. “We need to talk.”
“He’s with the Old Ones!” a voice rings out. “There’s nothing to talk about!”
A young man leaps at Nick, fangs bared. Alex reacts immediately, and the vampire is thrown violently across the room. She stands still, her hand raised menacingly, and says with a smug smirk:
“Objection overruled.”
Cutler fails to resist giving her a quizzical glance. Somebody needs to cut back on American legal dramas.
“What?” she whispers.
Cutler snorts. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t feel like such a dork anymore.
* * *
Breaking news: Wednesday, 11 April 2012, 14:08 GMT 15:08 UK
At least ten people have been killed and scores injured in the riots that broke out following an explosion at a restaurant […] No one was harmed in the explosion. Police claims gas leak.
Following the spreading of rumours about a purported terrorist attack, riots broke out in several parts of London, during which reports were received of people “with black eyes”, attacking the other rioters and “biting them to death”. UK Prime Minister has appealed for calm. Police denied the blast was timed to precede Prime Minister’s appearance on BBC One scheduled later today and was neither a rehearsal for another attack, nor served specifically to incite riots. So far, no terrorist organization has claimed responsibility for the act.
Home Office has stated hallucinogenic gas may have been used during the riots, accounting for the visions of fanged, black-eyed people who, according to eyewitnesses, “tore through the crowds like wild animals”.
[…]
* * *
Fade in: pale green grass sprouting in wisps around a slab of black granite. Gloved fingers brushing gently over its rounded corner. Cutler hasn’t been to a cemetery since Rachel’s burial. They make him feel a little sick at heart.
(“A gravestone,” Alex said. “A proper one.”
Cutler very nearly regretted asking. He was pretty sure there had been no official will or anything.
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Pangs of conscience?”)
He takes a step back, looks at the inscription on the gravestone.
THOMAS MCNAIR
FRIEND, HERO
(The last thing Alex said to him was: “Do you think it’s my fault? Because I tried to rent-a-ghost with him?”
They could probably assemble an entire blooper reel of medical mistakes they had made along the way, most of them his ideas.
“No,” Cutler said. He remembered Rook’s words: Most of the time it doesn’t matter what you do or how hard you try or what extremes you go to. People still die. “It’s not your fault.”)
The Archives of the Department of Domestic Defence are housed in a bunker in the woods. Cutler hates the woods. They remind him of dead coroners and werewolves and other, more widespread wild beasties that are to be avoided at all cost. He walks in circles for half an hour, cursing Rook and his stupid hideout, before he finally stumbles, out of sheer dumb luck, upon the hybrid of a bombshelter and a burial mound that serves as an entrance into Rook’s domain.
The door opens with a remote control key, which Cutler thinks is pretty cool. He walks down the stairs, squinting against the sickly yellowish light. Silent Hill at its finest.
In a corridor, the lighting changes to white. This is what Purgatory must look like. The air down here is chilly and a bit musty. There are splashes of dirty water on the concrete floor.
The Archives themselves are by far better lit. The sight of the large room lined with shelves and strong-boxes is actually quite comforting. It reminds Nick of a police station, and that’s a familiar turf.
“So this is where the magic happens,” he quips when he spots Rook standing in an aisle, watching him with an unreadable expression.
“How are you adjusting?” Rook asks. His smile will never stop giving Cutler a nasty feeling of being played.
“Apart from weekly attempts on my life? Great actually.” He’s got blood, freedom to do what he wills and no Griffins breathing down his neck. The only person he has to put up with is Rook, but Rook is bearable. So far his requests have not been unreasonable. “Not that you can change the mindset of a three-thousand-year-old species in a couple of months. Speaking of, what are you going to do now? I saw those news reports about poison gas and terrorist attacks and whatnot, but is anybody really buying it? They’ve all seen those riots with half of the participants missing from the recording. Some have even been fortunate enough to survive a close encounter. Where does that leave your department? What are you for now?”
A shadow flickers across Rook’s face, but it’s gone in a moment, replaced by a confident smirk that gives Cutler the jitters.
“Tempora mutantur. Perhaps we too shall find a place in this new world.”
Cutler leans against the desk, mulling Rook’s words over. It would be a peculiar world, and Cutler places very little trust in the Department of Domestic Defence.
The desk is laid out with folders, marked with names Cutler never wants to hear again. John Mitchell. George Sands. Anna Sawyer. Box Tunnel Twenty.
“What of Miss Millar?” Rook asks.
Cutler’s first impulse is to ask: who? He scrunches up his forehead, and then it hits him. He never even knew her last name.
“She’s with her family, I suppose. Trying to complete a list of unfinished business things. To, you know, pass over.”
That can’t happen soon enough.
“Are you going to assist her?”
Cutler released a half-choked laugh. That hasn’t even occurred to him. But then, he probably owes her.
“I… don’t know. Maybe?”
Not to mention that would be one surefire way to see the back of her.
Rook comes closer, puts his hand on Cutler’s shoulder. Cutler looks at it like it’s poisonous.
“While we’re at it, I should very much like to thank you for your cooperation,” says Rook. “You have been an invaluable asset.”
Isn’t that what misfortunate mooks are usually told before the resident Doctor Evil chucks them into a vat filled with boiling oil or venomous snakes or venomous snakes swimming in boiling oil?
Cutler smiles nervously.
“You’re welcome. The things one does for free blood.”
“I believe we have got a surprise for you.” Rook steers him out of the Archives and into a long corridor. “Think of it as a token of our amity.”
That doesn’t sound ominous at all. Cutler collects himself and allows Rook to lead the way. The lights here are red and the whitewash scales off the ceiling; the place would make a great zombie discotheque.
The corridor ends in a dimly lit room with lots of barred holding cells. This must be their infamous containment area. For a moment, Cutler imagines Rook pushing him into the nearest cell, locking the door and throwing away the key. For all he knows, that’s what “amity” means in Rook speak.
“The last door at the end,” says Rook, apocalyptically.
The cells are all empty, all welcoming. Cutler walks slowly past them, squinting at the glares of light bouncing off the walls covered in white tile. If Rook should stake him here, it would be very poetic. After all, he was made in one of these.
He stops in front of the last cell. The lighting was better, the suit was more posh and the outcome was different - but hey, déjà vu.
Cutler smiles and says:
“Hello, Hal.”
January 14 - March 29, 2013
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: R
Timeline: canon divergence mid-Episode 4x08, “The War Child”
Summary: When Cutler comes to Honolulu Heights with the purpose of killing Eve, it is Hal who opens the door. And he doesn’t let him enter. From here on out, it’s either a horror show or a sitcom. Cutler is not quite certain what the difference is. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Epigraph and title from “I Need Some Fine Wine, and You, You Need to Be Nicer” by The Cardigans. Quote from "Romeo and Juliet" by William Shakespeare.
A/N: Oh God, it's over! I don't think I can quite believe it just yet. Don't think I'd have reached the end of this if not for shirogiku, non-canonical and thequestioning. Thank you, guys! T_T <333
Part 1 - Our Heroic Moments
Part 2 - Our Group Decision
Part 3 - Our Dawn of the Dead
Part 4 - Our Double Twattage
Part 5 - Our Emotional Baggage
Part 6 - Our Halk Smash
Part 7 - Our Electric Boogaloo
Part 8
Our Hello-Goodbye
The devastating truth of her words takes a moment to sink in. Cutler feels faint and tells himself it’s because of the wound on his head and the rent-a-ghosting and the fucking explosion.
“Oh God,” Alex whimpers. “Tom!”
Cutler turns his head.
“Sh-shit!”
Tom is bleeding from a gash on the neck. For the thousandth time: people around Cutler must stop getting stabbed, beaten or blown up! How long does it take one to bleed out from a neck wound? Five minutes? Ten? He snaps at Alex to get him some gauze or any clean bandage she can find, and holds the wound with his hand, trying not to think about the sepsis and other unpleasant things that can happen to an almost human being with a hole in his neck. His skin is melting. He grits his teeth. His eyes water. He fails to hold in a pained outcry.
Tom’s lips tremble. He is trying to speak; Cutler can’t unclench his jaws to tell him to stop. Tom makes a wheezy sound that comes out almost like Hal’s name - but no, don’t, please, Cutler thinks, because if Tom does, if he mentions Hal again, Cutler will let go of his fucking wound and let the blood flow, and where the hell is Alex?
Tears splatter down his cheeks. How long does it take for the acid to eat through the flesh and mix with the blood? How long until the toxin is transported in the bloodstream and his insides start cooking? The acrid smell makes him gag.
Alex pops out of nowhere, cradling a load of bandages with one arm and holding a bottle of water in the other hand. She puts it down on the ground, swats Cutler’s hand away and begins bandaging Tom’s neck. Cutler’s breath comes out in ragged gasps alternated with sobs. He manages to unscrew the tap and pours water on his hand. Half of it splashes wastefully over his knee.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, give me that!” Alex snaps.
He remembers reading somewhere that it takes fifteen minutes to rinse an acid burn. Werewolf blood probably requires as much time, but he doesn’t have time to spare. His fingers are numb with pain. He can barely feel the water as it runs over his skin, raw-red and blistered. Alex pours the last of it out and rent-a-ghosts to get another bottle.
“Where is everyone?” Cutler asks. He can’t manage any inflection; his voice comes out disinterested and flat. “You’d think with an explosion like that there’d be coppers and firemen and whatnot.”
“There is a crowd at the end of the street, blocking the road.” More water. He winces and takes a shaky breath. “I think they’re vampires.”
Cutler closes his eyes for a moment. The pain burns all over him, even beneath his eyelids, searing hot. He careens forth, brings his hand up to his nosebridge to pinch it, and takes it away immediately, remembering the toxin. He doesn’t know how clean his skin is yet. He doesn’t feel clean.
“Call Rook,” Alex says.
He snaps his head up.
“What?”
“He should know what to do, he’s the bloody government, isn’t he?” She looks at Tom over her shoulder. “He needs to go to a hospital. Rook wants you to help them, right? So let him help us first.”
Cutler shakes his head mutely. He can’t imagine settling business right now. He mutters that he hasn’t got his phone on him because… because Hal… because Hal-
He can’t speak past the name.
Alex shoves her phone into his hand and tells him to stop being a pansy. He barely resists the urge to throw it at her head. It will do no good, what with her being a ghost, and that’s probably the thing that stops him.
He gets up, barely able to stand straight. Doubles over like a question mark, wondering how he got to survive. She must be thinking the same. She might even be wishing he were someone else, and he hates himself for not wishing the same thing because no matter how much it hurts now, he just isn’t that kind of man.
Alex grips him by the shoulders and gives him a shake.
“They don’t want Hal, they want you! If you don’t do it now, I swear I will rent-a-ghost you to bloody Kilimanjaro and drop you into the crater!”
He’s got no idea if she is capable of that, if it’s physically possible.
“So do it,” he says, but it’s not a challenge. He feels weary, worn thin, and he drops on his knees in front of her. It’s a little melodramatic. He looks up at her and hates her. “Hey, maybe this is your unfinished business. Do it! End this! Get rid of me.”
He’s not the kind of man to give his life for someone he cares about, but he is the kind of man to throw it away on a whim or to prove a point.
Alex looks down at him coldly - and the next thing he feels is her fist connecting with his face. She hits like a truck or at least a minivan running you down.
“You did this,” she says. “You brought this about. This is all your fault.” At this moment, even if she doesn’t know everything, she views him as the heir to the cause of Herrick, Wyndham, Griffin, and many others. “I don’t want my Dad and my brothers to live in your world. So here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get up and phone Rook, and you two will fix this bloody mess, or so help me!”
He swallows a lump in his throat. His nose is bleeding, but he doesn’t dare wipe the blood off in case some of Tom’s remains on his hands.
He nods. Fumbles for the note in his pocket and punches in the number.
“It’s Cutler,” he says. “I need… we need help. Medical assistance.” He looks around for the name of the street. It hits him that he’s got no idea where they are. “The building,” he says. “The building’s just collapsed. Bring some blood.”
“Cutler!” Alex cries out. He almost drops the phone. “I can’t feel his heart!”
He darts up to Tom’s prone body and checks the vitals. Nothing. He was fine a minute ago, and now it’s nothing.
“He needs to go to a fucking hospital,” Cutler mutters. Alex looks at him like he is an utter moron. He frantically drags the basics of CPR out of his memory. “Can you-?”
She stares at him and shakes her head vigorously.
“Annie said never with a living thing. It’s about the only rule.”
“Does he look like a living thing to you?” Cutler snaps.
Alex’s face contorts with something close to fear. He flashes back to the night he killed her. She had the same look on her face, but now it is somehow more pronounced. Back then it was all about her mouth, open wide and pleading, her tears and her body strained in a struggle against the restraints holding her; now it’s all in the eyes, which makes it terrifying.
She places her arms across Tom. Cutler lets go. Alex squeezes her eyes shut. The vein on her temple is bulging. She disappears, and reappears about a foot to the left, her arms still stretched. She gasps breathlessly:
“I can’t… I can’t do it!” She crawls over to Tom and takes over the heart massage. She seems almost professional. “Ventilation! I don’t breathe!”
Cutler pinches Tom’s nose with trembling fingers and leans into him.
“Two breaths, one second each,” Alex instructs.
He covers Tom’s mouth with his, counts and blows, pulls away and lets her resume the process. Rinse and repeat. He doesn’t have to breathe to survive, but he can produce airflow. He’s not that dead yet.
“How long’s it been?” Alex asks urgently.
He glances at the display of the phone. Two minutes. Three. Four. He doesn’t remember when they started. Feels more like two or three hours.
Alex swears under her breath. It’s too long as it is.
He looks at her hands, arranged on Tom’s chest one over the other, and gets the weirdest idea.
“What about direct massage? It’s more effective, isn’t it?”
He’s seen a few assorted medical dramas.
“Are you saying we should cut him open?” Alex exclaims, vaguely appalled.
“You can go through solid objects, can’t you?” He’s had it with tag questions. She can do it, he knows that, she knows that, so he’d rather she stopped mucking about and got to it.
“He’s not an object!” Alex protests.
“His thorax is, I assure you. Do it!”
Alex is ghostly pale, which is ironic as hell, only he’s not in the right state of mind to appreciate it. She presses down on Tom’s chest, her eyes screwed shut and her face scrunched up in frantic concentration. Cutler opens his mouth to hurry her up, though it’s redundant. With a dose of shock and admiration, he watches Alex’s hands sink slowly into Tom’s thorax as if becoming submerged under the water. The sight is disturbing in its unnaturalness, yet morbidly fascinating.
Alex opens her eyes. He can tell by the tension in her shoulders that she has got a hold of the heart and is working on it. Neither of them knows enough about resuscitation to classify this specifically as direct or indirect heart massage, and she pauses every now and then to allow Cutler to do his part. For all he knows, they might be wasting their time or inflicting even more damage.
It feels like it lasts forever. At some point, Alex goes still; then a short, breathless laugh escapes her lips. Her mouth twists with surprised relief.
“It’s beating,” she exhales, and half-sobs, half-laughs as she pulls her hands out.
Cutler reclines on the ground next to Tom, propped up on his elbows. Suddenly the light is too bright and the sounds are too loud, and he wonders if he has been poisoned after all. A grey Lexus whooshes into the street, moving so fast that its wheels barely touch the asphalt. An ambulance follows in its wake. Cutler picks himself up and watches Rook emerge from the car in his impeccable grey suit that surreally matches the colour of the car. Now that their after-action healing drama is over, any and all strength drains out of Cutler. He can’t stop blinking as he watches Rook approach and the paramedics transfer Tom onto a gurney and load him into the car. The sight of that hurts his eyes. Everything hurts, and his head is buzzing. One of the paramedics draws closer to him and starts saying something; Cutler can’t hear him past the hectic noise in his mind. The man takes him by the wrist cautiously and lifts his hand to take a look at it. Cutler lets him.
* * *
There is a sticky spot of blood on the asphalt where Tom lay. The area is cordoned off; Rook’s boys will probably pin the explosion on some terrorist organization.
Cutler looks at the blood stain. It seems to throb and grow, making everything red. Alex walks past him, and he remembers the taste of her blood, though of course it could be anyone’s blood.
“Mr Cutler.”
He looks up, meets Rook’s alien eyes. Eyes this blue are unnatural. Perhaps he’s got a surplus of colouring agent in his system.
“When you and I had our little chat about removing the Old Ones from power, I didn’t mean that you should do it quite so… loudly.”
Cutler fumbles for a reply. Alex exclaims indignantly:
“Oh, you, ungrateful bastard! They were planning to munch down the Prime Minister in front of everybody! Didn’t see you doing anything to try and stop them.” She punches Cutler in the shoulder; he all but jumps. “Say it!”
“They were going to kill the Prime Minister,” Cutler says with a tired sigh. “We had to act quickly.”
“Not quite how I put it,” Alex mutters.
“Oh,” Rook says together with her. “That explains it.” The smile he gives Cutler makes it look like he is dealing with a severe toothache. “I think that perhaps we should discuss the logistics of our collaboration.”
Cutler’s eyes are fixed on Rook’s neck framed by a pristine white shirt collar. Hal could probably drink without spilling a drop over the fabric.
Rook takes a wary step back. Cutler leans forth, captivated, his throat tight with ravenous hunger.
“H-have you got any blood?” he forces himself to say. Except the one in your veins, he thinks. There’s a whole city of blood around them, and the thought is becoming more and more obtrusive.
“Ah, yes. But perhaps-”
“Ask him about my body,” Alex says.
Cutler gapes at her. “What, now?”
“Yeah. It’s as good a time as any.”
Rook watches him curiously.
“I assume one of your Type Ones is here.” His apprehensive look sweeps around Cutler, as if trying to pinpoint the ghost’s location. “Anyway, as I was saying-”
Cutler can only take so many broken records at once. He grips the lapels of Rook’s jacket and pushes him against the car, fangs bared in an angry snarl.
“Her name is Alex,” he says. “I killed her at the Shivargo night club in Barry the day before you took down my videos. We’ve got reasons to believe you tidied up after me. So where’s her body?”
Rook tenses and stays motionless, but he is not frightened. Cutler almost wishes he were; fear is a well-known red flag for vampires, and Cutler is just itching for an excuse.
“Unless there has been a delay in transportation,” Rook says, “the remains are most likely with the family. This is how we handle such things. We send the carcass off with an appropriate cover story. By now, I believe, it may have already been interred.”
Cutler glances at Alex. All visible signs of rage have drained out of her. She purses her lips, which gives her a slightly offended look.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Cutler prods hesitantly.
“Yeah, but… It all happened without me.” She shakes her head. “What’s my cover story then?”
Cutler takes a step back and renders the question. He has to admit that Alex’s timing is quite good: taking care of her business has alleviated the thirst a little. He wonders if she has stepped in on purpose.
“Alex,” Rook repeats, searching his memory. “Barry.” He narrows his eyes for a moment, then supplies: “Drowning.”
“Drowning!?” she exclaims. A wave of her hand, and Rook is flung against the car, the wind knocked out of him. He blinks rapidly, colour drained from his face.
“She’s not taking it well,” Cutler says.
“I can see that.”
“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” Cutler asks Alex. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Non-violent. Normal.”
She throws her hands up, balls them into fists and groans.
“Not like this! It’s all done now, it’s in the past, but I’m still stuck here! With you! With him!” She points at Rook in distress. “With all of this! I have to watch people die, and the only one who can still see me is my fucking murderer!” She kicks the car aggressively. Rook starts. “And tell him to fucking look at me when he’s talking! Just because I’m invisible it doesn’t mean I’m not a person!”
She deflates suddenly and stops to look at the car. Cutler imagines that she could, if she wanted to, tear it apart.
“Do me a favour,” he tells Rook. “There’s two of us here, so could you please acknowledge her presence?” She’s going ballistic, he thinks pathetically, help me.
“Of course.” Rook looks around. Cutler subtly points to where Alex is standing. She seems to have calmed down already, but Cutler still inches away from her. Just in case. “I do apologise.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Alas, it takes time to move on from one’s preconceptions.” Another quick, sharp smile before Rook schools his features into a sympathetic expression. “I know you have been through quite a lot. Do not think for a moment that the Department and the nation will forget what you did today. However, the revolution has not been canceled. If anything, it progresses at a far greater speed now.”
Cutler catches himself thinking that Rook looks kind of maniacal when he gets on his favourite horse. Then again, Cutler used to talk to a wolf puppet, so he’s definitely not one to get judgmental about the man’s antics. A psychologist would have a field day with both of them.
“Pretty sure I’m not the only vampire eager to fill Mr Snow’s shoes,” Cutler says. “Not that I am. Eager, that is.”
“I can hardly find another suitable candidate on such a short notice,” Rook says impatiently. “Your undeniable merit is that you keep in touch with the world and do not underestimate humanity.”
Alex snickers at that. Cutler flashes her a sour look. She makes a show of zipping her mouth shut.
Rook goes on, spinning some bullshit about personal sacrifice and mutual gain and whatnot. They should have a BS face-off.
When Rook mentions the greater good, Cutler discovers he has got a new berserk button.
“Don’t talk to me about the fucking greater good!” he snarls. “People die because of it. I’m not eager to reach an early grave.”
Alex mutters that he is in fact about half a century too late, which is rubbish, he’s only ninety, humans do live that long.
“People die because of many things,” Rook reasons. “And for many things.” He and Eve would have got along swimmingly. “In fact, most of the time it doesn’t matter what you do or how hard you try or what extremes you go to. People still die. What matters is not to let them die in vain.”
“Cheesy,” is Alex’s verdict, “but what he said.”
Cutler gives both of them a scathing look.
“You’d better not be talking about someone I know,” he says. “Now where’s that fucking blood? Or should I start eating people?”
“You could try.” Rook narrows his eyes, reaches into the car and takes out a flask. Nick can smell the blood inside, and it twists his insides into a knot. “When you cut off a hydra’s head, two more will grow in its place. Unless the wound is cauterized.” He hands Cutler the flask. “Would you like to see what is going on? I don’t believe you appreciate the severity of the situation.”
What Cutler would actually like is to punch the annoying bastard in the face, but that doesn’t usually work out for him. Rook starts walking, absurdly assured that Cutler will follow, and Cutler does, against all better judgment. They reach a building at the end of the street and go up to the roof.
“What, you’re gonna push me off if I don’t consent to your little Machtergreifung?” Cutler quips.
Rook beckons him closer to the edge. Several streets can be seen from up here, and most of them are swarming with people.
“News travel very fast,” says Rook. “Local vampires are opposing the remains of the Old Ones’ entourage. There are several fractions that we know of, each of them more dangerous than the other. It was brewing for the past several days. My sources tell me Mr Snow hasn’t left a successor. I’m sure you understand that anarchy is by far more dangerous than any solitary dictator.”
Cutler snickers. Of course he hasn’t left a successor. His successor died with him.
Shell-shocked, Alex watches the boiling rivers of people. The crowd moves in disarray that almost seems staged. It feels as if every vampire in Britain has come to London to be at the epicentre of the upheaval.
Rook shows them the CCTV footage on his mobile phone. Policemen in full protective gear, armed with batons and shields, are pressing an invisible crowd.
“Riots,” Alex whispers. “We did this.”
“We do not normally concern ourselves with internal power struggle among monsters,” says Rook, “but humans are getting caught in the crossfire.” He taps the empty space on the display, confirming that there are vampires lashing out against the police. “The army are on the brink of declaring marshal law.”
If this were America, they would probably be shooting everyone now. That would have actually made things much easier.
Cutler takes a step back. Snow has only been dead for what, an hour? Two hours? Even less, perhaps. How did things escalate so quickly?
“Uh-huh,” he says, and shakes his head frantically. “I’m not…” His throat tightens. It takes a few more attempts to get the words out. “I’m not getting in the middle of this.”
He clings to the last defences available to him. He is a vampire; if anything, he should be down there with his fellow bloodsuckers, not up here, waiting for the Big Brother to make a category traitor out of him. His fingers clench painfully around the flask. Not that he cares that much about other vampires; he just cares even less about the government.
“Mr Cutler!” Rook sounds almost outraged. Well, tough.
Cutler turns around and runs. It hits him all over again that Hal is gone and everything else is gone too and every light at the end of every tunnel is actually an approaching train. He gets downstairs, darts outside and doesn’t look back.
* * *
TEST CARD
Do not adjust your set, normal transmission will resume shortly.
If ever.
* * *
Hiding in a sex shop with Elton John’s Candle in the Wind filtering through the radio speakers in the background is bizarre at best.
“The door was open,” Cutler explains. No, he hasn’t eaten the bloke at the cash register. No, the music wasn’t his choice either. “And you’ve got a lovely view of a gang of chavs looting a liquor shop.”
He points vaguely at the shopwindow. He wants to be looting a liquor shop too, but it’s a first come, first served thing apparently. Right now he is quite content sipping from the flask and feeling sorry for himself.
Alex looks around wistfully. Sex is in the top five of the things she has been deprived of by death, and by Cutler. She is quite vocal about it.
“I thought you wanted power,” she remarks. “You mentioned something about statues in Brazil when you… you know.”
Stuck a tube into her throat and drained her blood. Call a spade a spade.
“Aren’t I allowed to change my mind?”
“Not about this.” She dangles her arms like she doesn’t know what to do with them. “Personally I think both you and Rook are pretty sketchy. But in this case he’s right.”
“Did he put you up to this?” If looks could stake… “You do realise that there’s nothing we could have done differently, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she says. Maybe she means “no”. “So let’s not dwell on what we did and focus on what we should do.”
Cutler scoffs. “Good luck with that.”
He shifts the gauze pads on his fingers, trying to sneak a peek at the burns. He half-expects to see skeletal fingers, Tim Burton style. Perhaps he could win over the vampires by taking his head off and reciting poetry. These violent delights have violent ends, and so on and so forth. It sounds like something Hal would say.
“You saved me,” he says without looking at her. This is something they need to tackle sooner rather than later.
“Not a moment goes by that I don’t beat myself up about it.”
“Why me? Why not Hal?”
Alex huffs in frustration. “I don’t know! I thought Annie would get Hal out.”
Did she see Annie back there? Annie was in no shape to get anyone out, not even herself.
“What is it with you and Hal anyway?”
He doesn’t want to tell her because she would just simplify it, bring it down to the level of some trashy melodrama, but it’s so much more complicated than that. Or so he would like to believe.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” he says stubbornly. “I’m an extra in this story, Hal is-”
The shelf lined with multi-coloured vibrators behind Alex trembles. Somehow she manages to look threatening even with such a ridiculous background.
“This is not a film, for fuck’s sake!” she shouts. “Why are you so bloody obsessed with them?”
“Because!” That’s the short answer. She sends an avalanche of magazines tumbling down on him. “Because,” he concedes, “if the film is shitty, you can just blame it on lazy writing or poor acting or low budget. You can laugh it off or stop watching. You can break the door down easily or have a bloody happy ending, and everything serves a point. Everything is a storytelling device. Nothing happens at random.”
Alex snorts bitterly.
“Let me tell you about my happy ending.” Please don’t, he thinks. “I was supposed to travel the world, find a good bloke, become a concert pianist.” He gives her a quizzical look, but relents before she hits him with a bottle of lube. “Instead, my happy ending boils down to finding some mystical door to the other side because I’m dead! And apparently I can’t proceed with that because cocking vampires are taking over the world.” She laughs hysterically and throws her hands up. “So excuse me if I find it a little difficult to empathize with your failed silver screen dream!”
The last thing Cutler expects from her is empathy. He heads for the door, indicating that he is nine hundred per cent done here. She can do whatever she wants. Exit stage Cutler. Most likely pursued by a bear, but no matter.
Alex moves to block his way. Her arms are folded across her chest, so he doesn’t get the imminent danger clue straight away.
“Thank you,” she says. In hindsight, this should have been the clue. “I keep looking for excuses, and you just keep handing them to me on a silver platter.”
Her fist slams into his jaw, making him stagger backwards in surprise. For the second bloody time today. He punches back automatically. It’s not hitting a woman; it’s hitting a pissed off Terminatrix.
“You hit like a girl,” Alex laughs.
“What does that even mean coming from you?”
She kicks him in the shin. He yelps. She kicks him again, just below the knee. It’s pretty painful. She isn’t even using her ghost powers.
He lunges at her; she grips his forearm, spins him around and flings him into the counter. He grits his teeth, tinged with blood, turns to face her and strikes her in the stomach with his foot as she comes closer. It doesn’t do anything of course. Alex’s body jerks, but she can’t feel pain; she is upon him, and she grasps the front of his shirt and throws him against the shelves. He lashes out and buries his fangs in her neck - only to release her a moment later as a sharp, cold pain shoots through his head. Alex uses his confusion to knee him in the stomach. Well, not the groin at least.
Cutler collapses in a heap on the floor. He feels very impressive, shaking and sweating, lying in the pool of blood, having been bashed up by a girl.
“I guess that completes the beat-you-up part of my unfinished business,” Alex concludes.
He rolls onto his back and gives her a gloomy look that spells: oh, really? He’s so glad to be of help.
“Be honest,” Cutler splutters. “Do you actually believe that I can talk down a bunch of squabbling vampires and teach them to be friends with humans, whom for the record I like only as food?”
Alex is silent. Cutler gets up and hobbles out of the shop. He licks his front teeth clean. He needs some fresh blood and she, she needs to be nicer.
“This is what I bloody despise about you!” Alex shouts. Cutler looks back, waiting for her to elaborate. “You keep complaining that nobody takes your plans seriously and they’re all kinds of perfect and you’re so different from other vampires and you totally deserve all the riches and power and free blood and whatnot - but when it’s all handed to you, you chicken out! Are you afraid of responsibility or what?”
“I’m afraid of getting staked. I think it’s a legitimate concern given the circumstances.”
“Well, I was afraid of getting killed! I was twenty-two! I had three brothers, a Dad who’s pretty much incapable of taking care of them, a Mum who left when I was seventeen. I was going to find her and ask her why the hell she thought it’d be a good idea.”
He winces. “Stop it. It’s already done.”
“Yeah, and I died because of your stupid feud with Hal. You killed me to prove a point or take revenge or whatever. And now you’re telling me you can’t do this without Hal, that his death is a fucking paralytic! Then what the hell was mine?”
What does she want from him? Certainly not an apology. And he can’t bring her back to life, he’s not a necromancer.
But he does feel a little guilty. A little sick. A little horrified.
And very much cornered when he spots Rook waiting patiently by the car across the street.
Alex’s face softens a little. She holds out her hand, palm up, and says:
“Come with me.”
It’s a bit of a Terminator moment, except she doesn’t add “if you want to live” because he obviously does, but he probably won’t anyway.
He takes her hand (this should be a close-up) because if he can’t have nice things, he might as well do some nice things before he faces the final curtain.
“A killer and a victim,” Rook murmurs, shaking his head in wonder. “What a peculiar alliance.”
This makes Cutler smile inwardly. He has always aimed to impress.
* * *
They go for the locals first because, while their ranks are more numerous, their minds are more flexible. They run on fury born of misplaced faith and overwhelming ambition, something that Cutler can relate to only too well.
They don’t do a power walk this time around either, but they make a pretty impressive entrance, staking a couple of security guards with such precise timing that the smoke rising from the bodies creates a veil behind them.
For once, Cutler is in no mood to muck about. His heart is beating a lot faster than it should be physically possible for a vampire, or at least so it seems. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, partly because of fear and partly because of the inevitable excitement that makes the tips of his fingers tingle as new opportunities unfold alluringly before his mind’s eye.
The vampires stare at him. There are rents in his suit, as well as stains of blood that would not pass for human at a closer inspection.
Time to save the world with words.
“My name is Nick Cutler,” he says, and notes proudly that his voice isn’t shaking. “We need to talk.”
“He’s with the Old Ones!” a voice rings out. “There’s nothing to talk about!”
A young man leaps at Nick, fangs bared. Alex reacts immediately, and the vampire is thrown violently across the room. She stands still, her hand raised menacingly, and says with a smug smirk:
“Objection overruled.”
Cutler fails to resist giving her a quizzical glance. Somebody needs to cut back on American legal dramas.
“What?” she whispers.
Cutler snorts. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t feel like such a dork anymore.
* * *
Breaking news: Wednesday, 11 April 2012, 14:08 GMT 15:08 UK
At least ten people have been killed and scores injured in the riots that broke out following an explosion at a restaurant […] No one was harmed in the explosion. Police claims gas leak.
Following the spreading of rumours about a purported terrorist attack, riots broke out in several parts of London, during which reports were received of people “with black eyes”, attacking the other rioters and “biting them to death”. UK Prime Minister has appealed for calm. Police denied the blast was timed to precede Prime Minister’s appearance on BBC One scheduled later today and was neither a rehearsal for another attack, nor served specifically to incite riots. So far, no terrorist organization has claimed responsibility for the act.
Home Office has stated hallucinogenic gas may have been used during the riots, accounting for the visions of fanged, black-eyed people who, according to eyewitnesses, “tore through the crowds like wild animals”.
[…]
* * *
Fade in: pale green grass sprouting in wisps around a slab of black granite. Gloved fingers brushing gently over its rounded corner. Cutler hasn’t been to a cemetery since Rachel’s burial. They make him feel a little sick at heart.
(“A gravestone,” Alex said. “A proper one.”
Cutler very nearly regretted asking. He was pretty sure there had been no official will or anything.
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Pangs of conscience?”)
He takes a step back, looks at the inscription on the gravestone.
THOMAS MCNAIR
FRIEND, HERO
(The last thing Alex said to him was: “Do you think it’s my fault? Because I tried to rent-a-ghost with him?”
They could probably assemble an entire blooper reel of medical mistakes they had made along the way, most of them his ideas.
“No,” Cutler said. He remembered Rook’s words: Most of the time it doesn’t matter what you do or how hard you try or what extremes you go to. People still die. “It’s not your fault.”)
The Archives of the Department of Domestic Defence are housed in a bunker in the woods. Cutler hates the woods. They remind him of dead coroners and werewolves and other, more widespread wild beasties that are to be avoided at all cost. He walks in circles for half an hour, cursing Rook and his stupid hideout, before he finally stumbles, out of sheer dumb luck, upon the hybrid of a bombshelter and a burial mound that serves as an entrance into Rook’s domain.
The door opens with a remote control key, which Cutler thinks is pretty cool. He walks down the stairs, squinting against the sickly yellowish light. Silent Hill at its finest.
In a corridor, the lighting changes to white. This is what Purgatory must look like. The air down here is chilly and a bit musty. There are splashes of dirty water on the concrete floor.
The Archives themselves are by far better lit. The sight of the large room lined with shelves and strong-boxes is actually quite comforting. It reminds Nick of a police station, and that’s a familiar turf.
“So this is where the magic happens,” he quips when he spots Rook standing in an aisle, watching him with an unreadable expression.
“How are you adjusting?” Rook asks. His smile will never stop giving Cutler a nasty feeling of being played.
“Apart from weekly attempts on my life? Great actually.” He’s got blood, freedom to do what he wills and no Griffins breathing down his neck. The only person he has to put up with is Rook, but Rook is bearable. So far his requests have not been unreasonable. “Not that you can change the mindset of a three-thousand-year-old species in a couple of months. Speaking of, what are you going to do now? I saw those news reports about poison gas and terrorist attacks and whatnot, but is anybody really buying it? They’ve all seen those riots with half of the participants missing from the recording. Some have even been fortunate enough to survive a close encounter. Where does that leave your department? What are you for now?”
A shadow flickers across Rook’s face, but it’s gone in a moment, replaced by a confident smirk that gives Cutler the jitters.
“Tempora mutantur. Perhaps we too shall find a place in this new world.”
Cutler leans against the desk, mulling Rook’s words over. It would be a peculiar world, and Cutler places very little trust in the Department of Domestic Defence.
The desk is laid out with folders, marked with names Cutler never wants to hear again. John Mitchell. George Sands. Anna Sawyer. Box Tunnel Twenty.
“What of Miss Millar?” Rook asks.
Cutler’s first impulse is to ask: who? He scrunches up his forehead, and then it hits him. He never even knew her last name.
“She’s with her family, I suppose. Trying to complete a list of unfinished business things. To, you know, pass over.”
That can’t happen soon enough.
“Are you going to assist her?”
Cutler released a half-choked laugh. That hasn’t even occurred to him. But then, he probably owes her.
“I… don’t know. Maybe?”
Not to mention that would be one surefire way to see the back of her.
Rook comes closer, puts his hand on Cutler’s shoulder. Cutler looks at it like it’s poisonous.
“While we’re at it, I should very much like to thank you for your cooperation,” says Rook. “You have been an invaluable asset.”
Isn’t that what misfortunate mooks are usually told before the resident Doctor Evil chucks them into a vat filled with boiling oil or venomous snakes or venomous snakes swimming in boiling oil?
Cutler smiles nervously.
“You’re welcome. The things one does for free blood.”
“I believe we have got a surprise for you.” Rook steers him out of the Archives and into a long corridor. “Think of it as a token of our amity.”
That doesn’t sound ominous at all. Cutler collects himself and allows Rook to lead the way. The lights here are red and the whitewash scales off the ceiling; the place would make a great zombie discotheque.
The corridor ends in a dimly lit room with lots of barred holding cells. This must be their infamous containment area. For a moment, Cutler imagines Rook pushing him into the nearest cell, locking the door and throwing away the key. For all he knows, that’s what “amity” means in Rook speak.
“The last door at the end,” says Rook, apocalyptically.
The cells are all empty, all welcoming. Cutler walks slowly past them, squinting at the glares of light bouncing off the walls covered in white tile. If Rook should stake him here, it would be very poetic. After all, he was made in one of these.
He stops in front of the last cell. The lighting was better, the suit was more posh and the outcome was different - but hey, déjà vu.
Cutler smiles and says:
“Hello, Hal.”
January 14 - March 29, 2013