Fic: Things Present (1/3)
Jan. 26th, 2015 07:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thelibraniniquity posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
tli_productionsTitle: Things Present
Fandom: Primeval
Summary: Improvisation (noun): The art of making do with whatever is available at the time.
Characters: Becker/Stephen, Emily, Jess, Lester, Burton, Matt, Abby/Connor, references to and appearances by other, including OCs
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~7600
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lady_drace and fredbassett
Warnings: References to violence, character deaths and multiple timelines.
Author's Notes: The ridiculously late fifth installment in a series that is only finished now because of the Denial fic finishing challenge. Sorry about that! I have a rough plan for the next parts through to an actual end so feel free to poke me with sticks until things happen.
Previously: React to Contact, Dipt Into the Future, The Past Won't Last and If The Present Is Killed.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Past and to come seems best; things present, worst.
- Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2
1
Three weeks after Nick's funeral Stephen's promotion to team leader was made official.
Nobody celebrated.
Stephen had moved into Nick's lab, overlooking the atrium through soundproofed – even mammoth and future predator-proofed – glass.
Nobody bothered him. Outside of an anomaly shout, nobody really spoke to him. Stephen couldn't bring himself to be bothered; he'd considered quitting more than once, but hadn't seen the point in following through on that idea.
He knew too much but he couldn't do anything worthwhile about it. He'd fucked up spectacularly; nobody considered him capable of any better, in the ARC or outside it.
From his sanctuary, Stephen could observe without being scrutinised in return. Soldiers he didn't recognise carted away the last of Leek's possessions in sealed containers while Claudia reclaimed her half of the office. Connor's anomaly detection machine grew almost daily.
Twenty-three days after Nick's funeral, it took everything Stephen possessed not to jump out of his skin when the door to Nick's – his – lab opened behind him.
“You need to sign off on these,” Claudia announced, dropping a pile of folders centimetres from Stephen's nose. “In the next hour would be preferable, but I'll take by the end of business today. You missed a briefing with the minister – I took notes – and there's a new Special Forces captain arriving tomorrow.”
Stephen blinked, but before he could say anything, Claudia continued.
“He's a permanent replacement for Ryan, so Lester's orders are to break him in gently. Also there are meetings with department heads you need to start putting in an appearance at.” She stood at the corner of Stephen's line of sight, hands on hips but with a surprisingly soft expression on her face.
No, not so surprising.
“Look,” she said, her tone softening to match her face. “Nick's gone. He's not coming back – not any version of him. He's gone... and you need to be here.”
“I am,” Stephen said.
Claudia raised her eyebrows and sighed. “You need to be here,” she repeated, emphasising the last two words. “Either be here, or don't. There's no in between. There can't be. I want those signed.” She pointed at the folders as she turned and walked away.
Stephen watched the door close behind her.
He reached for the topmost folder.
Then the anomaly alert went off.
o o o o o
“Claudia.”
The knife at Stephen's throat presses in a little tighter. He hears someone move behind him – Emily, judging by the sound of boots on tarmac. He hopes she has the good sense to not come any closer.
Stephen searches Claudia's face as she stares back impassively. The hand holding the knife is steady but her other arm, held tightly against her body, twitches slightly. Her breathing is ragged but everything else about her is controlled.
“Claudia,” Stephen says again. He feels the knife's edge against his neck and swallows involuntarily. “It's me, Stephen. I-”
His chest spasms. Just for a second, but it's enough. Stephen reaches for his side and bows his head. Before the blade can cut his skin Claudia pulls it away.
“You're injured,” she says.
Stephen is almost too busy regaining control of his breathing (something he's been doing more and more lately) to realise she said anything at all. He leaves one hand cupping the bandaged area and looks back up at her.
“What?”
Claudia points at Stephen's side. “You're injured,” she repeats. Her voice is faint, raspy, like she hasn't used it in a long time. Like Stephen had sounded when he'd first got back to the ARC. Barely a week ago, he thinks dimly. Is that all it's been? And if Claudia's that raspy, and this hyper alert of her surroundings, just what has happened to her?
Behind him Stephen can hear movement and the low crackle of radio static, and a car alarm underneath a steady hum of traffic noises. He keeps his focus on Claudia, and answers her: “You are, too.”
Claudia pulls her injured arm in a little tighter. “You're injured,” she says again. This time there's emotion in her voice, but nothing that Stephen can identify. She looks up, over Stephen's shoulder but says nothing more.
“Yes,” Stephen says this time, wondering what she wants of him. It's easier than wondering how she got here, or how she was injured or what any of this means.
Claudia exhales loudly and leans back against the wall, tilting her head up to the sky. Her eyes close but her breathing remains ragged. She's still awake.
Stephen glances over his shoulder to see Emily and Sergeant Obaid watching them. Emily's face is inscrutable while Obaid looks wary.
“Secure the anomaly,” Stephen tells Obaid quietly. “Do it from behind me, if you can.”
Obaid shakes his head slightly. “This is impossible,” he says.
“So am I,” Stephen replies. He lets his hand fall from his side and slowly pushes himself to his feet. He keeps Claudia in his peripheral vision; her eyelids twitch at Stephen's words and movement, but otherwise she hasn't moved.
“Anomaly,” he says again, and Obaid's team start to unpack their equipment. Stephen raises his hand to his neck briefly.
There's no blood on his fingers when he pulls them away. And now questions are starting to crowd his mind.
“What now?” Emily asks him.
Stephen glances at her; then the anomaly; then back to Claudia. “I don't know,” he admits.
o o o o o
Jess' hands fly over the keyboard as she searches the stately home's CCTV for anyone who could qualify as an intruder. At the far end of the monitor banks is a single window with Detective Constable Former ARC Team Member Danny Quinn's Met ID photo and the few booking details the site management company had on public record. Every few seconds Jess glances at the photo (what stories would he have about the others; what's he doing now; why the apparent privacy about the wedding; would he like Jess if he met her?) and she has to keep reminding herself to stay focused on what actually needs doing.
The two monitors directly in her line of vision are running multiple black and white, mostly jerky feeds of car parks and service entrances – a government-funded 4x4 here, an ARC soldier or two there – but there was nothing that looked out of the ordinary until...
Jess freezes one of the feeds, rewinds it and hits play. A man – what looks like one from a particularly unfortunate angle – had picked a lock on a side door and, as Jess advances the video frame by frame, was looking around to see if he was being watched, completely oblivious to the camera above him. Jess smirks. Score one for modern technology.
She taps the video controls a few more times. There's a partial profile of the man's face, but not very much definition or detail. Frowning, Jess selects the best looking frame and reaches for the radio controls.
“Matt? I think I've found something.”
o o o o o
James Lester is in an early morning finance meeting. It's the worst kind – overpaid and woefully out of touch bureaucrats attempting to dictate how much of precious taxpayers' money should be allocated to their ongoing security and protection – and to cap it all, Philip sodding Burton is sitting across from him with a perpetually smug look on his face. When a knock on the door signifies an imminent interruption, James is almost grateful.
The door opens to reveal a youngish aide, possibly an intern by the way her eyes dart to the Minister, who mumbles something before skittering across to James' seat. She offers him a folded piece of paper, then all but runs out of the door, nearly slamming it in her haste to escape.
James' eyebrows climb of their own accord, and he schools a blank expression in the Minister's direction, and avoids meeting Burton's gaze entirely. He tucks the piece of paper underneath the tabletop and unfolds it.
He reads it, blinks, then reads it again. Just to be sure.
“Is something the matter, James?” Burton asks.
“Hmm? Oh, no. Just someone's idea of a joke, I imagine.” James tucks the piece of paper into a pocket and rises from the table. “No need to fret, Philip. I'll make sure the appropriate heads will roll. Minister, my apologies, I have something to attend to at the ARC.”
“I'll come with -”
“No need, Philip,” James says again, as smoothly as he knows how. “This meeting is the most important place either of us could be this morning, as you so earnestly pointed out on the way here. It wouldn't do for both of us to be absent, now would it?”
He leaves the room before Burton can react, but waits until he reaches an empty stairwell before he pulls his phone out. “I want this locked down, do you understand? Verify everything, whatever it takes. But nobody finds out.”
At least not until he can find out what the hell is going on.
o o o o o
“This is Chet Lyons here for the Morning Back Beat and it's a stunning Thursday morning out there – let's kick things off with a true classic from Stevie Wright...”
The DJ's West Country burr gives way to a distinctive guitar riff, and it's all Danny can do to not head-bang behind the wheel. He turns up the B road, slides into second gear and starts singing.
“I got some money in my pocket, I got the car keys in my hand...”
He laughs while he sings. It's a good morning, a great morning. Danny Quinn is getting married and he and his soon-to-be wife have earned every minute of today.
“Ugh, Quinn, shut up, some of us are trying to sleep back here.”
Danny laughs into the rear-view mirror. “No can do, guv. Come on, girl, just get on your shoes!”
“S'terrible.”
Danny chuckles, extra loudly. “I have the voice of an angel, guv. 'Sides, you're the one who phoned me, remember?” He's pretty sure it's law that the groom's men aren't supposed to get this drunk until after the wedding, but whatever. He's feeling magnanimous, and there's plenty of time to sober up before he says the big 'I do'.
“Evie! Evie! Evie, let your hair hang – what?”
Danny turns the radio down. Ahead of him is the gate to the stately home; standing just outside it is a woman all in black and in the distance there are several black vehicles in the car park.
The woman motions for him to stop and roll his window down.
“Is there a problem?” Danny asks, even as he eyes her. She's in nondescript black trousers and a plain jacket. There's a bulge indicating a concealed sidearm and thigh straps suggesting at least one more gun.
“Your reason for being here, sir?” She's got a Yorkshire accent and guns aside, everything about her screams polite security. She glances to the back seat, where Danny's sergeant is groaning himself into a seated position. “Sirs?”
“Wedding,” Danny says slowly. He looks back towards the car park, where more figures in black are standing besides one of the 4x4s.
Something clicks. It's an anomaly team.
“Who's your commanding officer?” he asks the woman.
She frowns. “I'm sorry, sir. What -”
“Your CO,” Danny repeats. He looks at his sergeant again; he can't say anything, not with the other man there. Dread fills his stomach; he really thought he'd seen the back of all of this. He bites the proverbial bullet. “Tell me Becker's part of the outfit still.”
The woman hesitates; behind him his guv mutters: “What?” under his breath but otherwise stays quiet.
“You're Danny Quinn.” The woman steps back from the car, cocks her head like she's listening to something. Danny peers – there's what looks like a Bluetooth earpiece poking out from under her plait. “Straight on through, boss is waiting for you.”
Danny exhales loudly and puts his foot on the pedal again.
He watches the house as he gets closer, then the soldiers – what else can they be? – as they turn to watch his approach into the car park.
He pulls up as far away from everyone as he can manage, and takes a deep breath.
“Danny?” The sergeant's fully alert now and frowning at him in the rear view mirror.
Danny represses the sudden urge to vomit. “Just follow my lead,” he says quietly.
He takes another deep breath, then gets out of the car.
o o o o o
Becker and Matt are searching the east wing of the stately house. There's no sign of life, human or otherwise. A small voice in Becker's mind tells him that if this really is Danny Quinn's wedding, so far it's a bit crap. It's all pastel colours and the kind of furniture his mum drools over on Antiques Roadshow and none of it screams Danny Quinn.
Maybe the venue is his fiancée's choice.
Or maybe he really didn't know Danny at all.
Becker's at the Home Office when he gets the text. Five minutes later he finds Danny in the conference room laughingly dubbed the Interim Anomaly Response Centre. “What the hell, Quinn?”
Danny huffs and rubs the back of his neck with his good hand. He looks like he hasn't slept or shaven in a week. “I'm done, mate. I'm out.”
So the text said. “That doesn't answer my question. What. The hell?”
Danny sighs. “Jen and I were talking last night and... we can't keep doing this. Not like this, Abby and Connor and -”
“Don't,” Becker says quickly. Too quickly.
“That's not what I meant.”
“Becker?”
Becker blinks and looks around.
“Did you hear what I just said?” Matt asks, frowning. He steps closer to Becker. “If you're not up for this -”
“We need to sweep for creatures,” Becker says as evenly as he can manage. “I'm fine.”
Matt's eyebrows climb. “You know what I think? Only one of those statements is true.”
“Well, we can all go home, then.” Becker knows he's being petulant. He also doesn't care.
Judging by the look on Matt's face he knows those two things as well.
“One day,” Matt says softly, “you're going to have to sit down with someone and have a long, long conversation about everything going on inside your head. Not today though – this room's clear, only another dozen or so to go.”
Becker closes his mouth, and nods. Then he arms his EMD for good measure. He can do this. He can take an olive branch, sweep an ex-colleague's wedding venue for possible prehistoric creatures. Even find a possible human intruder while he's at it.
“Lead on,” he tells Matt, gesturing with the EMD and trying not to miss his Mossberg too much.
Some things are just better with bullets.
The corner of Matt's mouth twitches – since when has Becker been this open a book? – but he gamely leads Becker out of the overly detailed double bedroom and into another overly detailed double bedroom; exact same bed, identical décor and furniture, just in matching shades of light purple instead of grey.
Becker really, really doesn't understand why people do this.
Matt opens the en-suite door, and a few seconds later: “Clear.”
“Same.” Becker taps his earpiece. “Sit rep.”
“No sign of any intruder,” Emerson reports. “Bailey found an events director. High enough up the pecking order, sir?”
It'll do. It's a mess, Becker thinks. They're running around like infants, reacting instead of acting. “Name?”
“Claire Duchemin. You to her or her to you?”
Becker glances at Matt; Matt nods. “I'll come to her. Where is she?”
“Ground floor office, second right from the south entrance.”
“Copy that.”
Matt nods again. “I can do this. Keep the channel open,” he adds, for everyone's benefit. “Report anything immediately.”
Everyone chimes in their ayes.
“Go,” Matt tells Becker.
Becker goes. He doubles back down the hallway to find a narrow staircase and jogs down to the first floor. Then it's another about turn, and the ceiling opens up into a well-lit open plan entrance way where the south door is located.
There's movement from up on his right and Becker freezes. He hears the indistinct sound of a woman talking, pausing, then talking again. Typical phone call behaviour. A door opens, and a woman backs out of it. Medium height, slender build, sensible clothes. Long dark hair. Head cocked to the side while she closes the door with her left hand.
Then she turns around.
Everything stops. Becker stares, unable to do – say – anything.
She looks just as shocked.
Dimly Becker hears voices coming through his earpiece. “...situation, boss. Captain?”
“Becker?”
Becker breathes long and loud. “What situation?”
“Danny Quinn's outside, sir.”
“Good,” Becker hears himself say. “His fiancée's right here. We'll meet you downstairs.”
“Sir.”
Becker looks back up at the woman. He tells himself he can do this.
“I don't even want to know, do I?” the woman says.
“Doubtful,” Becker replies. “Hello, Jenny.”
Jenny Lewis smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “Becker.”
o o o o o
Onto: Part 2
o o o o o
Fandom: Primeval
Summary: Improvisation (noun): The art of making do with whatever is available at the time.
Characters: Becker/Stephen, Emily, Jess, Lester, Burton, Matt, Abby/Connor, references to and appearances by other, including OCs
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~7600
Beta:
lady_drace and fredbassettWarnings: References to violence, character deaths and multiple timelines.
Author's Notes: The ridiculously late fifth installment in a series that is only finished now because of the Denial fic finishing challenge. Sorry about that! I have a rough plan for the next parts through to an actual end so feel free to poke me with sticks until things happen.
Previously: React to Contact, Dipt Into the Future, The Past Won't Last and If The Present Is Killed.
Past and to come seems best; things present, worst.
- Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2
1
Three weeks after Nick's funeral Stephen's promotion to team leader was made official.
Nobody celebrated.
Stephen had moved into Nick's lab, overlooking the atrium through soundproofed – even mammoth and future predator-proofed – glass.
Nobody bothered him. Outside of an anomaly shout, nobody really spoke to him. Stephen couldn't bring himself to be bothered; he'd considered quitting more than once, but hadn't seen the point in following through on that idea.
He knew too much but he couldn't do anything worthwhile about it. He'd fucked up spectacularly; nobody considered him capable of any better, in the ARC or outside it.
From his sanctuary, Stephen could observe without being scrutinised in return. Soldiers he didn't recognise carted away the last of Leek's possessions in sealed containers while Claudia reclaimed her half of the office. Connor's anomaly detection machine grew almost daily.
Twenty-three days after Nick's funeral, it took everything Stephen possessed not to jump out of his skin when the door to Nick's – his – lab opened behind him.
“You need to sign off on these,” Claudia announced, dropping a pile of folders centimetres from Stephen's nose. “In the next hour would be preferable, but I'll take by the end of business today. You missed a briefing with the minister – I took notes – and there's a new Special Forces captain arriving tomorrow.”
Stephen blinked, but before he could say anything, Claudia continued.
“He's a permanent replacement for Ryan, so Lester's orders are to break him in gently. Also there are meetings with department heads you need to start putting in an appearance at.” She stood at the corner of Stephen's line of sight, hands on hips but with a surprisingly soft expression on her face.
No, not so surprising.
“Look,” she said, her tone softening to match her face. “Nick's gone. He's not coming back – not any version of him. He's gone... and you need to be here.”
“I am,” Stephen said.
Claudia raised her eyebrows and sighed. “You need to be here,” she repeated, emphasising the last two words. “Either be here, or don't. There's no in between. There can't be. I want those signed.” She pointed at the folders as she turned and walked away.
Stephen watched the door close behind her.
He reached for the topmost folder.
Then the anomaly alert went off.
“Claudia.”
The knife at Stephen's throat presses in a little tighter. He hears someone move behind him – Emily, judging by the sound of boots on tarmac. He hopes she has the good sense to not come any closer.
Stephen searches Claudia's face as she stares back impassively. The hand holding the knife is steady but her other arm, held tightly against her body, twitches slightly. Her breathing is ragged but everything else about her is controlled.
“Claudia,” Stephen says again. He feels the knife's edge against his neck and swallows involuntarily. “It's me, Stephen. I-”
His chest spasms. Just for a second, but it's enough. Stephen reaches for his side and bows his head. Before the blade can cut his skin Claudia pulls it away.
“You're injured,” she says.
Stephen is almost too busy regaining control of his breathing (something he's been doing more and more lately) to realise she said anything at all. He leaves one hand cupping the bandaged area and looks back up at her.
“What?”
Claudia points at Stephen's side. “You're injured,” she repeats. Her voice is faint, raspy, like she hasn't used it in a long time. Like Stephen had sounded when he'd first got back to the ARC. Barely a week ago, he thinks dimly. Is that all it's been? And if Claudia's that raspy, and this hyper alert of her surroundings, just what has happened to her?
Behind him Stephen can hear movement and the low crackle of radio static, and a car alarm underneath a steady hum of traffic noises. He keeps his focus on Claudia, and answers her: “You are, too.”
Claudia pulls her injured arm in a little tighter. “You're injured,” she says again. This time there's emotion in her voice, but nothing that Stephen can identify. She looks up, over Stephen's shoulder but says nothing more.
“Yes,” Stephen says this time, wondering what she wants of him. It's easier than wondering how she got here, or how she was injured or what any of this means.
Claudia exhales loudly and leans back against the wall, tilting her head up to the sky. Her eyes close but her breathing remains ragged. She's still awake.
Stephen glances over his shoulder to see Emily and Sergeant Obaid watching them. Emily's face is inscrutable while Obaid looks wary.
“Secure the anomaly,” Stephen tells Obaid quietly. “Do it from behind me, if you can.”
Obaid shakes his head slightly. “This is impossible,” he says.
“So am I,” Stephen replies. He lets his hand fall from his side and slowly pushes himself to his feet. He keeps Claudia in his peripheral vision; her eyelids twitch at Stephen's words and movement, but otherwise she hasn't moved.
“Anomaly,” he says again, and Obaid's team start to unpack their equipment. Stephen raises his hand to his neck briefly.
There's no blood on his fingers when he pulls them away. And now questions are starting to crowd his mind.
“What now?” Emily asks him.
Stephen glances at her; then the anomaly; then back to Claudia. “I don't know,” he admits.
Jess' hands fly over the keyboard as she searches the stately home's CCTV for anyone who could qualify as an intruder. At the far end of the monitor banks is a single window with Detective Constable Former ARC Team Member Danny Quinn's Met ID photo and the few booking details the site management company had on public record. Every few seconds Jess glances at the photo (what stories would he have about the others; what's he doing now; why the apparent privacy about the wedding; would he like Jess if he met her?) and she has to keep reminding herself to stay focused on what actually needs doing.
The two monitors directly in her line of vision are running multiple black and white, mostly jerky feeds of car parks and service entrances – a government-funded 4x4 here, an ARC soldier or two there – but there was nothing that looked out of the ordinary until...
Jess freezes one of the feeds, rewinds it and hits play. A man – what looks like one from a particularly unfortunate angle – had picked a lock on a side door and, as Jess advances the video frame by frame, was looking around to see if he was being watched, completely oblivious to the camera above him. Jess smirks. Score one for modern technology.
She taps the video controls a few more times. There's a partial profile of the man's face, but not very much definition or detail. Frowning, Jess selects the best looking frame and reaches for the radio controls.
“Matt? I think I've found something.”
James Lester is in an early morning finance meeting. It's the worst kind – overpaid and woefully out of touch bureaucrats attempting to dictate how much of precious taxpayers' money should be allocated to their ongoing security and protection – and to cap it all, Philip sodding Burton is sitting across from him with a perpetually smug look on his face. When a knock on the door signifies an imminent interruption, James is almost grateful.
The door opens to reveal a youngish aide, possibly an intern by the way her eyes dart to the Minister, who mumbles something before skittering across to James' seat. She offers him a folded piece of paper, then all but runs out of the door, nearly slamming it in her haste to escape.
James' eyebrows climb of their own accord, and he schools a blank expression in the Minister's direction, and avoids meeting Burton's gaze entirely. He tucks the piece of paper underneath the tabletop and unfolds it.
He reads it, blinks, then reads it again. Just to be sure.
“Is something the matter, James?” Burton asks.
“Hmm? Oh, no. Just someone's idea of a joke, I imagine.” James tucks the piece of paper into a pocket and rises from the table. “No need to fret, Philip. I'll make sure the appropriate heads will roll. Minister, my apologies, I have something to attend to at the ARC.”
“I'll come with -”
“No need, Philip,” James says again, as smoothly as he knows how. “This meeting is the most important place either of us could be this morning, as you so earnestly pointed out on the way here. It wouldn't do for both of us to be absent, now would it?”
He leaves the room before Burton can react, but waits until he reaches an empty stairwell before he pulls his phone out. “I want this locked down, do you understand? Verify everything, whatever it takes. But nobody finds out.”
At least not until he can find out what the hell is going on.
“This is Chet Lyons here for the Morning Back Beat and it's a stunning Thursday morning out there – let's kick things off with a true classic from Stevie Wright...”
The DJ's West Country burr gives way to a distinctive guitar riff, and it's all Danny can do to not head-bang behind the wheel. He turns up the B road, slides into second gear and starts singing.
“I got some money in my pocket, I got the car keys in my hand...”
He laughs while he sings. It's a good morning, a great morning. Danny Quinn is getting married and he and his soon-to-be wife have earned every minute of today.
“Ugh, Quinn, shut up, some of us are trying to sleep back here.”
Danny laughs into the rear-view mirror. “No can do, guv. Come on, girl, just get on your shoes!”
“S'terrible.”
Danny chuckles, extra loudly. “I have the voice of an angel, guv. 'Sides, you're the one who phoned me, remember?” He's pretty sure it's law that the groom's men aren't supposed to get this drunk until after the wedding, but whatever. He's feeling magnanimous, and there's plenty of time to sober up before he says the big 'I do'.
“Evie! Evie! Evie, let your hair hang – what?”
Danny turns the radio down. Ahead of him is the gate to the stately home; standing just outside it is a woman all in black and in the distance there are several black vehicles in the car park.
The woman motions for him to stop and roll his window down.
“Is there a problem?” Danny asks, even as he eyes her. She's in nondescript black trousers and a plain jacket. There's a bulge indicating a concealed sidearm and thigh straps suggesting at least one more gun.
“Your reason for being here, sir?” She's got a Yorkshire accent and guns aside, everything about her screams polite security. She glances to the back seat, where Danny's sergeant is groaning himself into a seated position. “Sirs?”
“Wedding,” Danny says slowly. He looks back towards the car park, where more figures in black are standing besides one of the 4x4s.
Something clicks. It's an anomaly team.
“Who's your commanding officer?” he asks the woman.
She frowns. “I'm sorry, sir. What -”
“Your CO,” Danny repeats. He looks at his sergeant again; he can't say anything, not with the other man there. Dread fills his stomach; he really thought he'd seen the back of all of this. He bites the proverbial bullet. “Tell me Becker's part of the outfit still.”
The woman hesitates; behind him his guv mutters: “What?” under his breath but otherwise stays quiet.
“You're Danny Quinn.” The woman steps back from the car, cocks her head like she's listening to something. Danny peers – there's what looks like a Bluetooth earpiece poking out from under her plait. “Straight on through, boss is waiting for you.”
Danny exhales loudly and puts his foot on the pedal again.
He watches the house as he gets closer, then the soldiers – what else can they be? – as they turn to watch his approach into the car park.
He pulls up as far away from everyone as he can manage, and takes a deep breath.
“Danny?” The sergeant's fully alert now and frowning at him in the rear view mirror.
Danny represses the sudden urge to vomit. “Just follow my lead,” he says quietly.
He takes another deep breath, then gets out of the car.
Becker and Matt are searching the east wing of the stately house. There's no sign of life, human or otherwise. A small voice in Becker's mind tells him that if this really is Danny Quinn's wedding, so far it's a bit crap. It's all pastel colours and the kind of furniture his mum drools over on Antiques Roadshow and none of it screams Danny Quinn.
Maybe the venue is his fiancée's choice.
Or maybe he really didn't know Danny at all.
Becker's at the Home Office when he gets the text. Five minutes later he finds Danny in the conference room laughingly dubbed the Interim Anomaly Response Centre. “What the hell, Quinn?”
Danny huffs and rubs the back of his neck with his good hand. He looks like he hasn't slept or shaven in a week. “I'm done, mate. I'm out.”
So the text said. “That doesn't answer my question. What. The hell?”
Danny sighs. “Jen and I were talking last night and... we can't keep doing this. Not like this, Abby and Connor and -”
“Don't,” Becker says quickly. Too quickly.
“That's not what I meant.”
“Becker?”
Becker blinks and looks around.
“Did you hear what I just said?” Matt asks, frowning. He steps closer to Becker. “If you're not up for this -”
“We need to sweep for creatures,” Becker says as evenly as he can manage. “I'm fine.”
Matt's eyebrows climb. “You know what I think? Only one of those statements is true.”
“Well, we can all go home, then.” Becker knows he's being petulant. He also doesn't care.
Judging by the look on Matt's face he knows those two things as well.
“One day,” Matt says softly, “you're going to have to sit down with someone and have a long, long conversation about everything going on inside your head. Not today though – this room's clear, only another dozen or so to go.”
Becker closes his mouth, and nods. Then he arms his EMD for good measure. He can do this. He can take an olive branch, sweep an ex-colleague's wedding venue for possible prehistoric creatures. Even find a possible human intruder while he's at it.
“Lead on,” he tells Matt, gesturing with the EMD and trying not to miss his Mossberg too much.
Some things are just better with bullets.
The corner of Matt's mouth twitches – since when has Becker been this open a book? – but he gamely leads Becker out of the overly detailed double bedroom and into another overly detailed double bedroom; exact same bed, identical décor and furniture, just in matching shades of light purple instead of grey.
Becker really, really doesn't understand why people do this.
Matt opens the en-suite door, and a few seconds later: “Clear.”
“Same.” Becker taps his earpiece. “Sit rep.”
“No sign of any intruder,” Emerson reports. “Bailey found an events director. High enough up the pecking order, sir?”
It'll do. It's a mess, Becker thinks. They're running around like infants, reacting instead of acting. “Name?”
“Claire Duchemin. You to her or her to you?”
Becker glances at Matt; Matt nods. “I'll come to her. Where is she?”
“Ground floor office, second right from the south entrance.”
“Copy that.”
Matt nods again. “I can do this. Keep the channel open,” he adds, for everyone's benefit. “Report anything immediately.”
Everyone chimes in their ayes.
“Go,” Matt tells Becker.
Becker goes. He doubles back down the hallway to find a narrow staircase and jogs down to the first floor. Then it's another about turn, and the ceiling opens up into a well-lit open plan entrance way where the south door is located.
There's movement from up on his right and Becker freezes. He hears the indistinct sound of a woman talking, pausing, then talking again. Typical phone call behaviour. A door opens, and a woman backs out of it. Medium height, slender build, sensible clothes. Long dark hair. Head cocked to the side while she closes the door with her left hand.
Then she turns around.
Everything stops. Becker stares, unable to do – say – anything.
She looks just as shocked.
Dimly Becker hears voices coming through his earpiece. “...situation, boss. Captain?”
“Becker?”
Becker breathes long and loud. “What situation?”
“Danny Quinn's outside, sir.”
“Good,” Becker hears himself say. “His fiancée's right here. We'll meet you downstairs.”
“Sir.”
Becker looks back up at the woman. He tells himself he can do this.
“I don't even want to know, do I?” the woman says.
“Doubtful,” Becker replies. “Hello, Jenny.”
Jenny Lewis smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “Becker.”
Onto: Part 2
o o o o o
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2015-01-26 09:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-27 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-26 09:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-27 08:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-27 08:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-27 09:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-01 01:40 pm (UTC)The whole thing is thoroughly intriguing.
no subject
Date: 2015-02-01 04:19 pm (UTC)