Fic: The Wreckage- Chapter 1.
Title: The Wreckage
Rating: R
Pairing: Miranda/Andy, eventually.
Prompt(s): Prompt from pure_ecstasy6. "Andy is a big time journo and is called to the scene of a car accident. Upon arriving, she finds out that it's Caroline Priestly in the car..."
Summary: A fic should have a summary. It doesn't have to be terribly long, but it's nice to let people know what they'll be reading.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Warnings: This fic contains descriptions of a car accident and bodily injury. Nothing too graphic, but you've been warned!
A/N: Hi guys :) This is for the Baron Desert Fic Exchange. Un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Let me know what you think!
So, there was life after Runway after all. To Andrea Sachs it was questionable for a while. In the beginning, there were pangs of remorse that plagued her if she by chance crossed paths with a fountain, or even passed in front of Elias Clarke. The look on Miranda’s face when she deserted her played in her dreams for weeks, taunting and tormenting.
But, slowly, she began to love and accept her new position at the New York Mirror. Of course, when she first started out, she got the scraps and stories that no one else wanted to cover; but, even then, at least she was writing. She was in motion. That was something Runway never gave her, she doubted it would have ever.
But, even thought she loved her new job, it didn’t erase the overwhelming want for the briefest flicker of silver locks. She couldn’t shake the yearning desire she felt to see that little satisfied smirk pulling at the edges of lush, pink lips when she managed to get something more than right. The truth was, she missed those things more than the clothes or the money. The truth was, it wasn’t exactly Runway she liked; it was the woman who she was petrified of becoming.
Or, so she thought. Upon later assessment, she couldn’t come up with anything particular that really shook her about becoming Miranda. She had done what needed to be accomplished in order to save her job. And truthfully, Andy would do the same; not without remorse, and not without sadness, but she would do the same nonetheless.
Miranda was smart, she was beautiful, and hardworking, and about a thousand other adjective that still wouldn’t even scratch the surface of who Miranda really was beneath it all. Maybe that was why the second try with Nate was doomed from the start. What was Nate? He was a good cook, a nice guy, caring…sometimes.
It was a unanimous decision to part their separate ways. That is what brings Andrea to where she is now, one of the best investigative journalists the Mirror has to offer. She grew a tougher skin; she persevered. It wasn’t exactly uncommon to see her story on the front page. Her only complaint was somehow, more than often, she covered disasters.
Her last article was on the governors DWI. She was at the right hand of the police on that one; charming herself to the top wasn’t a skill she had forgotten. But, really, nothing could have prepared her for her current situation. Now, almost a year and a half after Runway, she stands facing her biggest challenge yet.
January 6th, 2008.
The bitter stench of burning rubber and gasoline surrounds the piles of bent and broken metal; the atmosphere is dense with dread. Andy walks towards the police cars surrounding the intersection, which is thankfully clear as a result of the late hour.
“Hey, James,” she said, “get that camera ready. This looks like it’s pretty gruesome.”
“You got it, Andy,” he says, toying with the buttons of the Nikon.
Together, they walk up to the circle of dark blue uniforms clutching cell phones and pale yellow pads. One man, tall and built with anxiety clearly clouding his expression, turns towards them.
“Where are you two coming from?” he asks, eying them with suspicion.
“Andy Sachs,” she replied, shaking the man’s hand, “this is my photographer, James Chandler, we’re reporters from the New York Mirror. We’re just here to get the story and go, no trouble. Can you tell us what happened here?” she said, just as an ambulance sounded somewhere in the distance. Andy gestured for James to go and sneak in some pictures. The officer nodded.
“A driver sideswiped some teen, the guy died on impact, probably drunk or high or something. The girl’s still in the car, unconscious. We’re waiting for the ambulance, she’s pretty bad off, some of our guys are cutting off the door now, she’s smashed in,” she finished, jutting his head to where officers were approaching a silver Mercedes.
Andy looked towards the accident scene, purposefully avoiding the passenger still inside. The car’s glass was shattered, the door crumpled like aluminum foil; blood speckled across the hood and slowly plopping down onto the road below.
Across from the car was a black Ford truck, the front bumper fallen off, windows smashed, and the hood lay on the ground in a crumpled mass. The door also lay on the road, burgundy liquid trailing from the drivers place to somewhere hidden behind a cop car.
The ambulance approached swiftly, a few paramedics springing out the vehicle and towards the Mercedes, now with the door removed onto the road below it. Their expressions were hurried, almost terrified.
“Why do they look so scared? Not that they shouldn’t, but everyone looks pretty freaked out. More than usual, I mean,” she said, scribbling into her notebook.
“We managed to easily identify the girl; one of our officers recognized her. Apparently, she’s the daughter of same famous lady, a real bitch. They’re probably just scared to screw up and kill the kid,” he replied.
Andy, almost horrified by his nonchalant attitude, was about to speak up when a pained cry rang out above the sound of all the cop cars and voices combined.
“Here she comes,” he said, turning towards the stretcher rushing towards them.
Andy turned and every hair on her body stood on alert. Instantly, any resemblance of color was drained from her porcelain face and her dinner threatened to make an encore appearance. The girl’s slender body lay limp, her leg twisted awkwardly in a clearly unnatural position.
Cuts and scrapes decorated her pale, freckled skin, and glass was seen weaved in her hair, stuck in skin and imbedded into True Religion jeans. The pink pair of Converse she sported was quickly becoming stained with red. A silver bracelet dangled from a bent wrist and Andy made out the name ‘Caro’ in elegant lettering.
She clapped her hand over her mouth, as she then stared into the battered and bloody face of a terrified Caroline Priestly.