[ 24 ; kate warner, jack bauer ] strawberry gashes (r for violence; spoilers for day two)sardonicynicOctober 30 2011, 05:07:39 UTC
Kate has bare seconds to be terrified.
Her knees meet the unforgiving hardwood of her foyer, and the muzzle of the gun is at the back of her head, digging into her scalp.
She doesn't have time to close her eyes.
The pressure disappears.
She blinks; her living room is still here - probably an image conjured by her dying brain.
Or what's left of it, anyway, wet red chunks sprayed across the hall, and pieces of her skull spotting the ivory wall. A few stray strands of blond hair cling in some spots, leaving scalpel-thin whorls of bloodied gray matter on the paint.
And Jack is here - again, and a hair-trigger too late, this time. Poor Jack, lowering his weapon, his eyes so sad. She'll never get to tell him how sorry she is that she couldn't help more, that she couldn't save the chip in time.
She let three armed men into her house in the name of paying them off for the Cyprus recording, but she couldn't predict their greed.
The United States will go to war based on false information.
She feels faraway pangs of regret, muted by the whirling roar between her ears, and wishes she could just tell Jack.
"Kate."
She doesn't understand why he's shaking her shoulders, or cupping her ruined cheek.
He'll get blood all over his hands.
"Kate," he says, with eerie, quiet determination. "Look at me. You're okay. You're fine, right here, with me. No one's going to hurt you."
"They can't," she says, her voice low and hoarse. "I'm dead."
Jack studies her, something close to incomprehension on his face.
He's in denial, she thinks, but it will pass; he'll move on to acceptance soon enough.
"I'm so sorry." Her heavy eyelids slip shut; she welcomes the velvet darkness. "I wish I could've done so much more."
Her knees meet the unforgiving hardwood of her foyer, and the muzzle of the gun is at the back of her head, digging into her scalp.
She doesn't have time to close her eyes.
The pressure disappears.
She blinks; her living room is still here - probably an image conjured by her dying brain.
Or what's left of it, anyway, wet red chunks sprayed across the hall, and pieces of her skull spotting the ivory wall. A few stray strands of blond hair cling in some spots, leaving scalpel-thin whorls of bloodied gray matter on the paint.
And Jack is here - again, and a hair-trigger too late, this time. Poor Jack, lowering his weapon, his eyes so sad. She'll never get to tell him how sorry she is that she couldn't help more, that she couldn't save the chip in time.
She let three armed men into her house in the name of paying them off for the Cyprus recording, but she couldn't predict their greed.
The United States will go to war based on false information.
She feels faraway pangs of regret, muted by the whirling roar between her ears, and wishes she could just tell Jack.
"Kate."
She doesn't understand why he's shaking her shoulders, or cupping her ruined cheek.
He'll get blood all over his hands.
"Kate," he says, with eerie, quiet determination. "Look at me. You're okay. You're fine, right here, with me. No one's going to hurt you."
"They can't," she says, her voice low and hoarse. "I'm dead."
Jack studies her, something close to incomprehension on his face.
He's in denial, she thinks, but it will pass; he'll move on to acceptance soon enough.
"I'm so sorry." Her heavy eyelids slip shut; she welcomes the velvet darkness. "I wish I could've done so much more."
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