The Nighttime Stage / CSI+SGA
Title: The Nighttime Stage
Rating: PG
Fandom: CSI+SGA
Prompt: Write about a tool.
Summary: Nick wonders if he’s chasing ghosts.
It’s one thing to have a suspect escape, but it’s quite another to have the same suspect escape three times in one month. Such a failure is an embarrassment to any officer; Nick, however, is more than just embarrassed and frustrated-he’s infuriated, because how long will this wild goose chase go on? How long until he catches a break? His training and tools are useless; despite how hard he searches, how thoroughly he investigates, the results are always the same: no match. DNA from black hair never correlates with any collected swabs, and fingerprints never flag anyone in the system.
But he knows the three victims are connected somehow. Their deaths were messy (signs of struggle), but efficient (one quick gunshot finished the fight). He never second-guesses himself, not even when Gil asks how can you be so sure? Nick’s sure thanks to the matching (but unmatchable) hair and the lack of relevant prints. They’re all signs of a professional, someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and how to get away before anyone else begins to notice something’s wrong.
The first Monday of the second month, Nick’s called to a scene only a few miles from the Strip. He shoulders his way past the curious crowd, sidestepping pedestrians and ducking reporters. He almost reaches the perimeter when he collides into someone wearing jeans and a black sweater, but instead of receiving the usual hey, watch where you’re going!, he feels a hand steady him, making sure he’s perfectly balanced before letting go.
“Thanks,” he says, surprised, looking up to a see a handsome man smiling back. Nick tries not to feel flustered by the attention, but it’s been a long few weeks, and any human contact-even this meaningless moment-feels good.
“No problem,” comes the easy reply, and he smiles again, only it’s traced with a lingering sadness. He feels sorry for Nick. Of course, a lot of people do; jobs that require such a familiar acquaintance with death aren’t exactly healthy or beneficial. Nick watches the man spare a glance towards the still body sprawled out on the road. “Good luck,” he says, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up in electric directions. It seems like he wants to say something else, but the sound of a siren and Brass’ loud voice cuts him off. Nick turns to listen, just for a second.
When he looks back, the man’s already walking away, hands shoved in his pockets. He peeks over his shoulder as he turns the corner and disappears from sight.
But Nick’s rooted to the spot, because despite his lack of sleep, his mind won’t stop turning. The stranger’s smile, his attitude, the way he ran his hand through his hair-
that hair, jet-black, a certain length-
how unsurprised he was to see the dead woman on the road-
“Brass!” he yells, shoving past a photographer and not bothering to apologize. “Around the corner! Get a squad to section off the street!” Brass doesn’t argue, but they never find the man in black, and no one remembers seeing him.
It’s like he vanished instantly, beamed away, eluding Nick for the fourth time in a row.
…
“You found it?”
“Rodney.”
“You found it, right?”
“Yes, Rodney, I found it.”
“How many Trust members did you kill to get it?”
John looks at his hand, studying the small artifact so vital to the SGC. It was a bit like a flashlight, and according to Rodney, it could very well help Atlantis survive the next Wraith attack.
His mind wanders to the tired man behind the tape, the one who’ll spend weeks and months hunting a ghost, who’ll carry the burden of four unsolved deaths, who won’t sleep in favor of working late, who’ll know he saw the killer and let him slip away. John sighs and closes his fingers around the item, violently gained but now in safe hands.
“Too many,” he answers, and hopes that investigator can let those murders go.
FIN.
Rating: PG
Fandom: CSI+SGA
Prompt: Write about a tool.
Summary: Nick wonders if he’s chasing ghosts.
It’s one thing to have a suspect escape, but it’s quite another to have the same suspect escape three times in one month. Such a failure is an embarrassment to any officer; Nick, however, is more than just embarrassed and frustrated-he’s infuriated, because how long will this wild goose chase go on? How long until he catches a break? His training and tools are useless; despite how hard he searches, how thoroughly he investigates, the results are always the same: no match. DNA from black hair never correlates with any collected swabs, and fingerprints never flag anyone in the system.
But he knows the three victims are connected somehow. Their deaths were messy (signs of struggle), but efficient (one quick gunshot finished the fight). He never second-guesses himself, not even when Gil asks how can you be so sure? Nick’s sure thanks to the matching (but unmatchable) hair and the lack of relevant prints. They’re all signs of a professional, someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and how to get away before anyone else begins to notice something’s wrong.
The first Monday of the second month, Nick’s called to a scene only a few miles from the Strip. He shoulders his way past the curious crowd, sidestepping pedestrians and ducking reporters. He almost reaches the perimeter when he collides into someone wearing jeans and a black sweater, but instead of receiving the usual hey, watch where you’re going!, he feels a hand steady him, making sure he’s perfectly balanced before letting go.
“Thanks,” he says, surprised, looking up to a see a handsome man smiling back. Nick tries not to feel flustered by the attention, but it’s been a long few weeks, and any human contact-even this meaningless moment-feels good.
“No problem,” comes the easy reply, and he smiles again, only it’s traced with a lingering sadness. He feels sorry for Nick. Of course, a lot of people do; jobs that require such a familiar acquaintance with death aren’t exactly healthy or beneficial. Nick watches the man spare a glance towards the still body sprawled out on the road. “Good luck,” he says, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up in electric directions. It seems like he wants to say something else, but the sound of a siren and Brass’ loud voice cuts him off. Nick turns to listen, just for a second.
When he looks back, the man’s already walking away, hands shoved in his pockets. He peeks over his shoulder as he turns the corner and disappears from sight.
But Nick’s rooted to the spot, because despite his lack of sleep, his mind won’t stop turning. The stranger’s smile, his attitude, the way he ran his hand through his hair-
that hair, jet-black, a certain length-
how unsurprised he was to see the dead woman on the road-
“Brass!” he yells, shoving past a photographer and not bothering to apologize. “Around the corner! Get a squad to section off the street!” Brass doesn’t argue, but they never find the man in black, and no one remembers seeing him.
It’s like he vanished instantly, beamed away, eluding Nick for the fourth time in a row.
…
“You found it?”
“Rodney.”
“You found it, right?”
“Yes, Rodney, I found it.”
“How many Trust members did you kill to get it?”
John looks at his hand, studying the small artifact so vital to the SGC. It was a bit like a flashlight, and according to Rodney, it could very well help Atlantis survive the next Wraith attack.
His mind wanders to the tired man behind the tape, the one who’ll spend weeks and months hunting a ghost, who’ll carry the burden of four unsolved deaths, who won’t sleep in favor of working late, who’ll know he saw the killer and let him slip away. John sighs and closes his fingers around the item, violently gained but now in safe hands.
“Too many,” he answers, and hopes that investigator can let those murders go.
FIN.