Actual Reality...
Title: Actual Reality
Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: PG-13 for disturbing themes?
Word Count: 390 words
Notes: The gen fic I kind of not really promised. This is dark and written for m31andy as commentfic, because she's bored today.
He knows he's right. It's one of those stinging sensations, deep down in his gut. The body's there, by the bin. And something’s got to be done. Telling the others would lead to failure, so he does what he has to do. It doesn't take as long as he'd expect. As long as it has. Muscle veiled in wire in his arms and cleverly used lifting techniques see to that. There's other evidence, of course. Lots of other evidence. If anyone could be bothered to look. But Sam knows that the only one who has the word 'bother' in their personal dictionary in the team is himself and it's not like he's going to raise his hand and point away.
He re-imagines staring at the body - lifeless eyes, blood down the hollow under the cheekbone. It's the third this week. A different death. This time, a bullet wound to the head. Once, a thin line against the neck and burst blood vessels surrounding the iris. There was the mangled flesh and bone. He thought that was a nice touch. So many deaths and yet, no being dead. Just vitally alive. Painfully alive. No words to say. Find the body, hide the body, get on with it. And he wonders how they felt, the other Sams. At least one wound looks self-inflicted. Maybe a couple of the others. He thinks that might be what he senses, when he goes looking - the despair, the soul-crushing inner turmoil that he goes to great lengths to ignore.
He dusts off his hands and wonders when he'll be able to look at them without seeing his own blood. He walks from the edge of the canal. There's no thinking about the appearance of these tangible ghosts. No contemplation of the paths not taken. He'd like to think it's another Sam and only another Sam - that there isn't another Annie, or another Gene, in each instance. But wishful thoughts don't equal actual realities. He gives a hollow laugh, makes it to the borrowed car and radios in. One day, who knows, the short hair and leather might be found by someone else, and he won't be around to dice up the limbs and stash them away.
There may finally be a Sam who gets a coffin. But what will be the final nail?
Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: PG-13 for disturbing themes?
Word Count: 390 words
Notes: The gen fic I kind of not really promised. This is dark and written for m31andy as commentfic, because she's bored today.
He knows he's right. It's one of those stinging sensations, deep down in his gut. The body's there, by the bin. And something’s got to be done. Telling the others would lead to failure, so he does what he has to do. It doesn't take as long as he'd expect. As long as it has. Muscle veiled in wire in his arms and cleverly used lifting techniques see to that. There's other evidence, of course. Lots of other evidence. If anyone could be bothered to look. But Sam knows that the only one who has the word 'bother' in their personal dictionary in the team is himself and it's not like he's going to raise his hand and point away.
He re-imagines staring at the body - lifeless eyes, blood down the hollow under the cheekbone. It's the third this week. A different death. This time, a bullet wound to the head. Once, a thin line against the neck and burst blood vessels surrounding the iris. There was the mangled flesh and bone. He thought that was a nice touch. So many deaths and yet, no being dead. Just vitally alive. Painfully alive. No words to say. Find the body, hide the body, get on with it. And he wonders how they felt, the other Sams. At least one wound looks self-inflicted. Maybe a couple of the others. He thinks that might be what he senses, when he goes looking - the despair, the soul-crushing inner turmoil that he goes to great lengths to ignore.
He dusts off his hands and wonders when he'll be able to look at them without seeing his own blood. He walks from the edge of the canal. There's no thinking about the appearance of these tangible ghosts. No contemplation of the paths not taken. He'd like to think it's another Sam and only another Sam - that there isn't another Annie, or another Gene, in each instance. But wishful thoughts don't equal actual realities. He gives a hollow laugh, makes it to the borrowed car and radios in. One day, who knows, the short hair and leather might be found by someone else, and he won't be around to dice up the limbs and stash them away.
There may finally be a Sam who gets a coffin. But what will be the final nail?