Things were good. The snow was gone, Ellie was due in about a month, things with Sarah were great and Chuck hadn't unwittingly become the Abominable Snowman's pet human. Maybe good had gotten a little close to boring, but Chuck didn't really have a problem with that. It was better than working at the Buy More and being shot at on a semi-weekly basis.
So of course, with everything going as well as it was, it was only a matter of time before something went wrong. Before something crazy happened or someone showed up or...
...to be honest, Chuck had kind of been waiting for the other shoe to drop. He just never expected that other shoe to belong to Bryce Larkin.
From where Chuck stood on the beach, Chuck's eyes went slightly wide.
He wasn't dead. Bryce might not be entirely familiar with the physical feelings a dead man should have but he did know what those feelings were when the man was nearly dead but not quite really. That was how he felt now, which only reinforced his suspicions about Fulcrum's involvement and, on a greater and far more threatening scale, that of The Ring.
Chuck's sudden presence was of no help; The Ring could kidnap Bryce, attack him, shoot him, revive him - they could do what they wanted to Bryce and it wouldn't make much difference. Bryce had been trained to handle it, Chuck hadn't. Of the two of them, Chuck was in the most danger.
"Chuck, you need to get out of here. Get as far as you can as fast as possible without looking back, got it?"
So it was him. Chuck knew that Sarah had told him that Bryce hadn't actually died, and that the bomb that he'd thought was going to go off and kill everyone in Los Angeles had actually had Bryce tucked away inside, but this...this was still really, really weird.
"No...no, wait," Chuck said, holding up both hands, palms out, "Look, you're not where you think you are."
It was hard to believe that Chuck knew where they were any more than Bryce did. They had been in the same room with the Intersect only minutes ago - or, Bryce realized, what only felt like minutes to him. For all he knew, it had been days, weeks, or even months, no different than the last time.
Maybe he should have been giving Chuck the benefit of the doubt here. "Then where are we?" he asked.
Sarah spent her days bored stiff, to be honest. She was waiting all the time for something, anything that would take her back to who she was, and trying just to be okay, to enjoy what she had when underneath all the happiness with Chuck, there was that persistent wariness. Something had to happen. Something had to change. She wasn't always sure whether or not she wanted it to, but something would.
The sight of him hit her like a shot, somewhere in her gut and across her chest, heat and fear radiating, tugging at her. "Bryce." It was a breath, a split second and then she was running, sand harsh under her bare feet, shoes falling from her hands. It was like the last year had evaporated, leaving nothing but shock. This wasn't what she'd been asking for. The blood. She prayed it might not be as bad as it looked. She was sure it was. "Bryce, oh my god, you're --"
"Sarah." It wasn't quite a statement, sounded more like a question, but was, in fact, a realization. Dammit. She shouldn't be here. He had no doubt that she could take care of herself but this was beyond anything they had encountered before. The stakes had been raised higher than even he could know; they weren't just battling Fulcrum anymore, they were up against The Ring now. Besides, they didn't want her. They were after Bryce which meant that Sarah still had a shot.
He waited until she was close enough to hear him, not wanting to attract any more attention than they both already had. "Sarah, what are you doing? You need to get out of here right now, as fast as you can."
Dammit. Sarah was supposed to be able to handle this, able to handle anything -- steel in the field. She wasn't always, though, that was the problem. It had always been the problem. The immediacy of his words, the suddenness of being back in that world without having left the island at all -- it tightened her throat, pricked at the back of her eyes.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said, calm, hands still at her sides. (She wasn't even supposed to know him here, she shouldn't have been talking to him in public. With Bryce, the rules had never seemed as important as they should have been. That much, at least, never changed.) "Bryce, this is -- you've been shot, let me help you. I'll explain later."
He lifted his shirt so she could see, insisting that he was fine. "See? Nothing there. Whoever did this... Whoever saved my life could be watching us right now."
There wasn't a doubt in his mind that they were watching. Whatever chance Sarah had at getting unscathed, it was getting slimmer and slimmer by the second. "Come on, we'll have to split up."
In light of recent events, Heather Hudson is, perhaps, less surprised by the presence of a gun on the beaches of Tabula Rasa than she might have been just a few weeks prior. Though the man is obviously a new arrival and not another denizen who's gone and snapped, she approaches him with an almost cautious weariness nevertheless, holding up her hands to show she's unarmed -- not, of course, that her simple black one-piece has much room for storing weapons, but going through the motions is important when dealing with someone unknown and potentially dangerous.
Idly, she wonders if the blood is entirely his own.
"Sir, I realise this may be a little overwhelming, but if you could please lower your gun, I'd be more than willing to fill you in on the details."
"Not a chance." Lowering his gun was the last thing Bryce had any intention of doing. He tightened his grip around the weapon, anticipating that he might have to raise and aim it sooner than expected.
She didn't look familiar, but that was the point, wasn't it? The Ring had been able to infiltrate nearly every branch of government; no one could be trusted. "Convince me you're not Fulcrum and I'll lower it."
Heather's hands are still in the air as she takes a single step forward. Though clothed -- if just barely -- she feels unusually naked without the protection of the Vindicator suit, but she remains outwardly calm. In her mind's eye, she runs over different ways she might disarm him should this all go south, but the truth of the matter is, her experience with guns is limited almost entirely to hunting. She chooses to ignore this fact, at least momentarily.
"My name is Heather Hudson. Before my arrival here, I worked for the Canadian government, and I'm afraid I've never heard of Fulcrum," she replies steadily, her eyes flicking towards the gun before she returns her attention back to his face. "And, to be perfectly frank, I would be very surprised if this 'Fulcrum' of yours has heard of this place, either, though I'm not naïve enough as to think that'll convince you much of anything. That said, I'm again asking you to please lower your gun, sir."
This time, Bryce complied. He lowered his arm, let it rest at his side and relaxed his grip, but only slightly. He wasn't prepared to let down his guard just yet, but he didn't need to be making any enemies, either. Of course, that was assuming this woman wasn't lying.
"This place?" It was the first of many questions that came to mind.
Guy had spread out a towel on the beach a few hours ago. He had taken a swim (finally!) and had now settled comfortably on the towel to read a book and enjoy a nice glass of palm wine.
A man's coughing made him look up from his reading. It was rather obvious that he had only just arrived. There weren't many other Islanders who would take a nice walk on the beach fully clothed and with a gun in their hands.
Caution was required. He took a drag of the cigarette and smiled. "You know, there's enough space for you on the towel if you only ask nicely."
Of the many things Bryce might have anticipated were coming - gunshots, explosions, emergency helicopter extractions - this was one scenario that was nowhere on the list. If he was an agent trying to gain Bryce's trust he was doing a terrible job of it. If he wasn't interested in trust and was only there to coerce, negotiate, or any combination of the two, then Bryce was still the man with the gun. He still had the upper hand, unless...
Unless they weren't alone. It was the most unfortunate situation of the three, which also made it the most likely. He raised his head, eyes fixed on the other man. "So. Who are you?"
Guy had reasoned that if he didn't pay mind to the gun, it would be more obvious that there was no threat. (For as much as a man lying on a towel could be a threat.) It was not a tried and tested reasoning.
Lloyd's first thought when he saw the guy was that he looked exactly like Jaye had a year ago, when boys were suddenly made of sugar and spice and everything nice, and the girls had gotten some snips and snails and puppy dog tails to shake things up. Lloyd's second thought was that there was no way this could be Jaye -- the dude was dressed like some kind of mob hitman and holding a fucking gun. It didn't help that Lloyd was carrying one of his own, currently empty and holstered in the Wild West styled gunbelt Bert had given him for Christmas.
"Hey buddy, you're all bloody," he said, nodding carefully at the shirt. He kept his hands raised, doing his best job of looking nonthreatening, which came pretty damn naturally. "You all right?"
If this man wasn't working an angle, then chances were he was on their side; CIA or NSA, most likely. As of yet, there wasn't enough to back up either option, so Bryce took a quick step back and raised his weapon.
"Stop right there," he warned, making sure his tone suggested that he didn't intend on shooting unless he was given reason to. "Who are you?"
Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, just what he needed. Lloyd didn't think this was a very good answer to his question, but he wasn't about to complain. He did what the guy told him and froze in place.
"Name's Lloyd -- Lloyd Henreid, all right?" he said, trying to sound cool and calm and all that shit, though some confused annoyance slipped through. This wasn't the first time he'd had a gun pointed at him -- it had only been a couple of months since Halloween -- but it didn't make it any more fun, and seeing Jaye-as-a-dude's face was making it eerie on top of everything. At least, from the way the guy talked, Lloyd figured he was most likely a spook, not a hitman. He hoped. "Can you chill the fuck out, please? We got to get you to the clinic if you're injured."
"I'm not injured," Bryce replied, despite the fact that he hadn't actually checked. He knew what injured felt like and this wasn't it.
"Lloyd Henreid." If he had heard the name before - he racked his brain for case files, surveillance tapes, anything of use - he had forgotten it, but that didn't seem likely. "Who do you work for, Lloyd?"
Comments 95
So of course, with everything going as well as it was, it was only a matter of time before something went wrong. Before something crazy happened or someone showed up or...
...to be honest, Chuck had kind of been waiting for the other shoe to drop. He just never expected that other shoe to belong to Bryce Larkin.
From where Chuck stood on the beach, Chuck's eyes went slightly wide.
"...Bryce?"
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Chuck's sudden presence was of no help; The Ring could kidnap Bryce, attack him, shoot him, revive him - they could do what they wanted to Bryce and it wouldn't make much difference. Bryce had been trained to handle it, Chuck hadn't. Of the two of them, Chuck was in the most danger.
"Chuck, you need to get out of here. Get as far as you can as fast as possible without looking back, got it?"
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"No...no, wait," Chuck said, holding up both hands, palms out, "Look, you're not where you think you are."
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Maybe he should have been giving Chuck the benefit of the doubt here. "Then where are we?" he asked.
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The sight of him hit her like a shot, somewhere in her gut and across her chest, heat and fear radiating, tugging at her. "Bryce." It was a breath, a split second and then she was running, sand harsh under her bare feet, shoes falling from her hands. It was like the last year had evaporated, leaving nothing but shock. This wasn't what she'd been asking for. The blood. She prayed it might not be as bad as it looked. She was sure it was. "Bryce, oh my god, you're --"
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He waited until she was close enough to hear him, not wanting to attract any more attention than they both already had. "Sarah, what are you doing? You need to get out of here right now, as fast as you can."
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"I'm not going anywhere," she said, calm, hands still at her sides. (She wasn't even supposed to know him here, she shouldn't have been talking to him in public. With Bryce, the rules had never seemed as important as they should have been. That much, at least, never changed.) "Bryce, this is -- you've been shot, let me help you. I'll explain later."
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There wasn't a doubt in his mind that they were watching. Whatever chance Sarah had at getting unscathed, it was getting slimmer and slimmer by the second. "Come on, we'll have to split up."
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Idly, she wonders if the blood is entirely his own.
"Sir, I realise this may be a little overwhelming, but if you could please lower your gun, I'd be more than willing to fill you in on the details."
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She didn't look familiar, but that was the point, wasn't it? The Ring had been able to infiltrate nearly every branch of government; no one could be trusted. "Convince me you're not Fulcrum and I'll lower it."
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"My name is Heather Hudson. Before my arrival here, I worked for the Canadian government, and I'm afraid I've never heard of Fulcrum," she replies steadily, her eyes flicking towards the gun before she returns her attention back to his face. "And, to be perfectly frank, I would be very surprised if this 'Fulcrum' of yours has heard of this place, either, though I'm not naïve enough as to think that'll convince you much of anything. That said, I'm again asking you to please lower your gun, sir."
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"This place?" It was the first of many questions that came to mind.
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A man's coughing made him look up from his reading. It was rather obvious that he had only just arrived. There weren't many other Islanders who would take a nice walk on the beach fully clothed and with a gun in their hands.
Caution was required. He took a drag of the cigarette and smiled. "You know, there's enough space for you on the towel if you only ask nicely."
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Unless they weren't alone. It was the most unfortunate situation of the three, which also made it the most likely. He raised his head, eyes fixed on the other man. "So. Who are you?"
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"My name is Guy Burgess. And you?"
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"Hey buddy, you're all bloody," he said, nodding carefully at the shirt. He kept his hands raised, doing his best job of looking nonthreatening, which came pretty damn naturally. "You all right?"
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"Stop right there," he warned, making sure his tone suggested that he didn't intend on shooting unless he was given reason to. "Who are you?"
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"Name's Lloyd -- Lloyd Henreid, all right?" he said, trying to sound cool and calm and all that shit, though some confused annoyance slipped through. This wasn't the first time he'd had a gun pointed at him -- it had only been a couple of months since Halloween -- but it didn't make it any more fun, and seeing Jaye-as-a-dude's face was making it eerie on top of everything. At least, from the way the guy talked, Lloyd figured he was most likely a spook, not a hitman. He hoped. "Can you chill the fuck out, please? We got to get you to the clinic if you're injured."
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"Lloyd Henreid." If he had heard the name before - he racked his brain for case files, surveillance tapes, anything of use - he had forgotten it, but that didn't seem likely. "Who do you work for, Lloyd?"
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