XOVER: Changing of the Guard 4: The Road To Hammelcar [PG13] 5/19
ecolea (ecolea@WT.NET)
Sun, 23 Dec 2001 08:35:25 -0600
Notes and disclaimers in part 0/19
Chapter 5
Jack let out the breath he'd been holding and eased his hand away from the
hilt. God, that was awful, he thought bitterly. Not that he hadn't killed
men in the same way at least a hundred times, but never a friend -- even if
he couldn't die permanently.
Pierson's head lolled against his arm as he shifted and he straightened it,
making sure it lay comfortably against the head rest. Not that Pierson would
feel it, but because it was more dignified.
He sat back a little and checked the other man's posture. Legs stretched
out, not splayed. Arms resting neatly by his side. Except for the knife in
his chest, Pierson looked liked he was napping. O'Neill nodded. Okay, he
could live with that.
He looked around the interior of the little ship then shook his head. Just
keep moving, he told himself harshly. Get it done now. Get it done right.
And move on.
He pulled his own knife from his boot and easily cut the seat belts from his
chair then carefully sliced a small slit in the center of each. Leaning
forward again, he worked one strap over the hilt of Pierson's dagger then
the other. Pierson's head fell forward flaccidly, but he ignored it as he
crisscrossed the belts around the breathless chest. Blood spurted up and out
of the wound at the movement, globules of it floating into the weightless
environment, and bobbing sickeningly above his head. O'Neill batted them
aside as he worked. At least there hadn't been much blood as the knife went
in, he thought with relief. And no thrashing or gasping for air. A nice,
easy death--to keep both of them from feeling the horror of it.
Finally, he secured the straps to the struts of Pierson's chair, anchoring
them with hard tugs so they wouldn't work loose. Without thinking too hard
about what he was doing, O'Neill ran his hands over his handiwork. It would
do for now, he thought practically, then he righted Pierson's head and sat
back, absently flicking a large blood bubble away from his nose and onto the
window.
It spattered soundlessly. Some of it adhering to the canopy, most of it
foaming into a mist which drifted slowly outward. Nice, O'Neill thought
disgustedly as he wiped his hands on his pants.
He took a moment to settle his emotions then shifted around to find that
panel and sort through his supplies. Six canisters of water, twenty-four dry
bars, a copy of Quinta's manifesto, along with the medical kit Pierson had
mentioned, and two small holographic projectors. One of which contained some
truly obscene Ishri porn stars doing things he didn't even want to dream
about, the other...
O'Neill chuckled. The complete works of Misty Eyes and her Celestial Harps.
Good thing Pierson's dead, he thought wryly. He'd have killed himself if
he'd had to sit and listen to this stuff for six days! On the other hand,
Jack grinned, he'd always kind of liked the Spice Girls -- especially that
Sporty Spice. Maybe Misty and her celestial harp would be easy on the ears
and eyes.
He glanced over at Pierson and his smile faded. This whole scenario was
somehow wrong. Surreal, he thought with a shake of his head as he watched a
thin trail of blood working its way toward the ceiling to pool in the well
of the canopy. In a few days it would probably be raining in here.
Wonderful! he thought disgustedly, putting aside the rations for which he
now had no appetite and settling back in his chair to watch Misty. He'd
sleep later. Right now, what he most definitely needed was something to
distract his mind.
***
Day two, O'Neill recorded in the journal of his mind. Misty is totally cool.
Too bad Pierson isn't awake to make snide remarks. I miss being able to
snark on the guy. Read Quinta's little book last night. Girl definitely has
a few screws loose. Wish Pierson were here to talk about this stuff. God, he
looks like he's sleeping. Wonder what it's like. Being dead and still alive.
Not sure I believe MacLeod on that score. Have to ask Pierson about that
when he wakes up.
If he wakes up, O'Neill thought, then hurriedly brushed the thought aside.
He'll wake up, Jack told himself firmly. He'd seen him do it before. Though
just that once, and maybe Anise had... Stop it! he told himself angrily.
He'll wake up!
Jack leaned forward and checked the straps again, trying not to look at
Pierson's face as he did so. Blood from the chest wound had been steadily
welling up, soaking the straps and Pierson's clothes along with them. Dead
and yet not dead, he thought. Blood still flowed, albeit sluggishly, and the
body was just slightly cooler than normal temperature. Rigor hadn't even set
in. And not long after he'd broken the bones, the neck had reset itself with
a sharp crackling, making Jack start at the sound.
Just a little while longer, he thought leaning back. Get some sleep, he
silently ordered himself, before you start hallucinating.
Jack sighed and sipped some water, then wiped the thin film of bloody sweat
from his face and closed his eyes. He'd eat something tomorrow he promised
himself. Right now, he just didn't have the appetite.
***
Day three.
Jack pressed the knife deeper, cursing the blood soaked material which had
stretched taught then ripped while he was sleeping. Damn! he cursed silently
as more blood spurted from the wound onto his face. Gotta do something about
that. His eyes searched the little cabin, finally focusing on his seat
cushions. Some of that padding might do...
He cut a few swaths from the back rest and wadded them around the base of
the blade. It seemed to help, but there was nothing to be done about the
rest of the fluid, which hung in the air sliming the canopy above.
A moment later he nearly jumped out of his skin as a light on the panel in
front of Pierson flickered on and started beeping. The ship suddenly lurched
to his left as the engines kicked in, throwing him sideways with a hard
thump.
"Shit!" he spat, coughing as blood from the ceiling splashed across him. He
wiped his face with his sleeve, then checked the knife as the ship finally
righted itself. Must have found that gate, he nodded silently, keeping his
lips pressed tight. Good work, Pierson.
He shifted the body back into place, righting the head then glanced down at
Pierson's blood covered face. With the edge of his other sleeve he tried to
clean it up, messily smearing it instead. His stomach churned and Jack felt
bile rise up in his throat as he turned away.
Just a stupid gut reaction, he thought. Especially since he hadn't eaten all
day and had nothing to bring up.
Only a little while longer, Jack reminded himself faithfully as he set his
watch to alert him every four hours. He'd need to keep checking now that the
straps weren't holding too well.
Grabbing one of the water bottles, O'Neill swished some in his mouth,
gagging as he tasted blood and spat it out. Forget that, he thought,
nauseated, tossing the water back inside the storage compartment.
He sat back in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position now that some
of the padding was gone then decided he needed another distraction. Misty
was usually helpful, but the light of the images picked up the glistening
particles hanging wetly in the air, and the red haze which now surrounded
her was singularly horrific.
Sleep, he thought. That's what he needed, sleep. Had he set his watch? Yes.
Right. Did that already. He yawned tiredly, or maybe the air was thinning.
All this moisture couldn't be good for the filters. Too late. Too bad. It
was what it was. Now all he needed was to go to sleep. He closed his eyes
against the red, red of the canopy above and passed out -- weak, tired and
possibly dying. Right now though, he just didn't have the energy to care.
***
Day four.
Blood. Blood. And more blood. Jack was dreaming of it. Bathing in it.
Swimming in it. Drowning in the stuff as he killed his friend over and over
and over.
Why do I have to kill him? He couldn't quite remember. But he liked the guy.
Doesn't matter. Tough luck. Have to do it. No choice. Do it again.
Jack shoved the knife in deep as Methos sat there smiling. His chest split
open and a white light began to pour out. Terrified, O'Neill tried to
staunch the bright flow of energy. This was bad. This was wrong. He had to
catch the light. Shove it back in before Methos really died.
But he was already dead, wasn't he? Still, if he was dead, where did all the
blood come from? Corpses don't bleed -- experience had taught him that.
But... If he wasn't dead...did that mean he should kill him some more?
The beeping of his watch alarm woke Jack from his nightmare. Or had it?
Without thinking he reached forward and pushed the knife hilt until it felt
secure. Nightmare asleep or awake, what did it matter?
He reached out and tried to wipe the red mist from the window, but it was
foggy outside and he couldn't see the stars. No more sleeping, he thought
dully, but he should drink some blood.
With a start, O'Neill realized he was losing it. He wasn't eating, hadn't
really been sleeping and he hadn't been able to get down a single drop of
water since the last time he'd tried.
How long ago had it been? He checked the date on his watch. Two more days to
go he nodded. Just a little while longer. He could hold it together for that
long, couldn't he?
Come on, Pierson, say something! Oh right, Pierson's dead. Never mind.
***
Day five.
Red alert. Have to kill him. Red alert. Have to kill him. Red alert. Have to
kill him. Red...
***
Day six.
One hard red pull and...
Done!