Chapter 17 (Almost There!)

Home stretch! I'm 130 words into the final chapter, and will definitely finish it tomorrow. This is probably, against all odds, the most coherent long piece I've written, and definitely my favorite. I will never speak of the post-apocalyptic thing, nor the alternate universe author tract. They have been forgotten. This I might even both to revise, which is a First of Firsts.

In this chapter: SOMEONE GETS SHOT OMG!!!!!111!!1!!1one!!!

I hate myself a little, for writing that. Sorry. But it's true. Still Not Safe for Those of a Prim Disposition.


Havisham and Jean stepped forward in front of the women, all three of whom seemed affronted. Stranger simply stared. There wasn't a lot he could do, at this point, except listen to the witty banter passing back and forth between Jean and Leroy. So, as the first verbal assault was made and parried, Stranger sidled around to where George was standing.

"Why, look at what we have here," Leroy said, saccharine sweet. "A plucky little band of heroes looking to face down the big bad man. You forgot a part of your cliche, though, it appears. I don't think a single one of you has a weapon, do you? Anyone?"

No one moved. Stranger froze momentarily, hoping Leroy wouldn't notice his momentum.

"Clark. You know, I thought you had a little more class," Jean said, and Stranger breathed easier and kept edging around to George. Of course he was on the far side of the group. "A little more je ne sais quoi, perhaps. Such a shame to see that I was wrong."

Stranger reached George and whispered, "George. George. Is it in the car?"

"I know exactly what you thought I had. 'Je sais quoi, mais tu ne sais pas' indeed," Leroy said, dropping quotation marks in his speech effortlessly. Stranger hated him a little more, for that. He and his lackey were drawing closer, both guns aimed at the group. Stranger really wanted those guns to be pointed somewhere else. Like, perhaps, at the people wielding them, instead. "You thought I had morals. Some kind of misguided sense of right and wrong? It seems you were mistaken, Jean."

George had gotten his point and was taking his turn inching awkwardly around behind everyone else, heading for the Caddy.

"It hasn't done you a lot of good," Caroline said, moving up and forming a united front with Jean and Havisham, both of whom were taking slow, angry steps forward. "Your people were panicking like rats in a trap." And now George was leaning casually on the car, one arm furiously searching the back seat.

"You forget something about rats in a trap, my dear. When rats are cornered... We fight," Leroy said, and fired a single shot. It was aimed over their heads, and must have had a silencer on, because it wasn't particularly loud. But it got his point across. Stranger was standing stock-still, trying not to breath too loudly in case it drew Leroy's attention. But, thank the capricious universe, George was inching back, not one but two familiar objects in his hands.

"I didn't know which it you meant," George murmured beneath the conversation and the sound of sirens in the distance. "So I got both." One was one of their high-tech phones, one that had promptly been stowed and forgotten in the back seat. The other was the katana, long forgotten and ignored in favor of flashy guns. It would do. Stranger grabbed both, slowly, and spent five seconds figuring out how to dial 911. Then he dropped the phone in his pocket, upside down, so the microphone was exposed, and held the katana loose in his right hand, so that the rest of the group hid it. He stepped forward, becoming even with Persephone and MacAlleister, and George did likewise, flanking them.

Stepping forward again, narrowing the space between the two groups down to a mere ten feet, Jean said, "I suppose it might be a bit much to expect honor from a trapped rodent. But still. A true Frenchman knows how to deal with these things honorably. I thought I might at least see that from you, with your Baroque stylings and Sun King allusions." Stranger swallowed. Jean was pushing it.

But it was effective. Leroy was turning strange colors, a flush of purple battling with pasty white on his face. His lackey was looking nervous, worried about his boss or their chances against seven people at short range, who might not really give a crap what happened to them. It couldn't have helped his state of mind when Leroy yanked his gun from his hand and tossed it to Jean. "We'll duel, then. How's that for your honor," he spat.

Stranger sensed his opportunity and started moving forward. His movement blended into the general surge forward of the rest of the group. "Stop," Jean said, calmly. To the evident shock of the lackey, whom Stranger was giving most of his attention, because he was the only one who might be paying attention to Stranger himself at this point, everyone did. "We'll do this like gentlemen," he said, and there was a brilliant steel edge to his voice, sharp as the katana's blade. He moved forward and out at a forty-five degree angle, circling until he was facing Leroy from a distance of maybe thirty feet.

"You fucking bastards," Leroy said. "You ruin Richard, and then because that's not enough, you ruin me, too. Everything I had, everything I worked for, you just come in and kick it down, not even knowing what you were doing, fumbling like children. Simply because of some illusions like law and order, or good. There's no fucking thing!" Spittle was flying from his mouth at this point and the hand holding the gun was shaking. Stranger found it alarming, and started circling around behind him, carefully, hoping to finish this quickly.

The sirens were getting closer.

The lackey saw Stranger coming towards him, his blade switched to his left hand so as to prevent Leroy from catching a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye. His eyes grew huge. Stranger hurriedly brought a finger to his lips. The lackey looked at him, confused, for just long enough for Stranger to smack him in the face with the flat of the blade. He took the opportunity to lie down for a while, where no one would bother him.

"We didn't do anything to you," Jean said, calmly, speaking over the meaty thump and slight metallic hum Stranger had caused, keeping Leroy distracted. Stranger envied his poise like an envying thing. Unfortunately, Leroy was extremely alert to any kind of clue that would let him flip out, and he heard anyway.

He whirled on Stranger, who held up the katana like he might have a clue how to use it. "You talk to me about honor and then you have this little shit come around to stab me in the back!" he screamed. "Well, here's this for honor!" And he fired at Stranger, and all Stranger knew was pain.

-----

He woke up in the hospital, in a private room if the Victorian decoration scheme was any indication, with a single, huge bouquet on the fiddly little table against the wall opposite. Stranger spent a couple moments staring at it, wondering over the sheer vibrancy of the colors, before he realized he was currently on the good drugs, and passed out again.

The next time he woke up, it was to the sound of Persephone being very angry at someone. He tried to apologize, but his tongue was thick and his checks were numb, so all he managed was an incoherent mumble. Persephone immediately stopped being angry and started cooing at him, with occasional nasty asides to whoever else was there. Content that he wasn't getting shouted at, he slipped back off.

The third time he woke up, it stuck a little better. He was still in the private room, and the flowers had scented it thoroughly enough that they almost covered the antiseptic smell. Everything was a bit blurry, yet, so he had to blink a couple times when a face leaned over him before it resolved into the face of Mr. Rochester. Stranger was a bit put out with this development, to be honest. "Where's Persephone?" he asked.

"Which one's Persephone?" Rochester asked. "Never mind, I'll find out later. I'm here to tell you that you have been absolved of all charges. Neither of the weapons you held killed Sir Richard, apparently. It was all a malfunction of the experimental weapons system that he used for security. You will still be called in as a witness for the kidnapping charges that are being pressed against his staff, however."

"That's nice," Stranger said. "Did I get in any other trouble?"

"Only a slight issue with the whole association-with-terrorists bit, but that was dropped after they produced some extremely interesting papers from the federal government," Rochester said, a satisfied smile on his face. "Very interesting papers. Indeed, I don't think they will be facing any issues in the US for quite a while, now."

"Very nice." Then the most recent events of his memory hit, and he asked, "Leroy? I mean, Mr. Clark?"

"He is currently waiting for the trial, but he is definitely getting life in prison. The only real question is how many consecutive sentences he'll receive. His organization has been dismantled, piece by piece, by the same government that evidently deals with your friends. His attack on you and yours was a last stand, a bit of revenge before he fled the country. He seems to think you lot were responsible for it."

"Knowing them, they probably were, a little bit," Stranger said. "But definitely not mostly." Then, realizing he was probably going to pass out soon Is Persephone here? She's the brunette with the legs."

"The tall one? I'll bring her in. It was quite a struggle to get her out for this talk, to be honest," Rochester said. "Her real name is -"

"No, don't tell me," Stranger said. "Just ask her in, please." The drugs were making him more polite, it seemed. Well, no one would complain about that.

Rochester got up and left the room, taking a briefcase the size of a small desk with him, and Persephone entered almost immediately. "You are in more trouble than you have any idea how to deal with," she said. "But that can wait until later." And then she gave him a hug. It was the gentlest yet, and Stranger desperately wanted to hug her back, but he seemed to have a pick line in his right arm and lots and lots of bandages on the other.

So he settled for saying, "Hi."

She pulled back, and said, a little watery, "Hi."

"Do I get to know your real name, now?" he asked. "After all, I got shot being stupidly brave. Did I earn it?"

"You're an idiot." She shook he head. "It's Mary. But if you even think, for half a second, of calling me by it I won't ever speak to you again."

"Duly noted," he said. "... Quite contrary."

She swatted him upside the head, and he laughed. Unfortunately, that jogged his arm, and he cut off, wincing. Persephone immediately figured it out, and looked down at his arm, and he followed her gaze.

"How bad is it?" he asked. She wouldn't sugar coat it, and there really were quite a lot of bandages. At least it was his left.

She swallowed. "Lots of burns, and there's going to be a lot of scarring," she said. "They were worried about the muscle, but it seems to be alright. You're going to have to wear long sleeves or scare small children, but the hand was barely splashed, so it's fine. You're going to be basically okay."

Stranger felt the knot under his breastbone unravel. "Awesome," he said, smiling up at her. Then the details made their way through his morphine-addled brain. "Ah, what exactly did those guns shoot?"

"Flaming napalm," Persephone said.

Stranger stared at her. "What?"

"He was so upset, he mostly missed you," she explained "The building behind you now had some structural issue, but you escaped practically whole, compared to what a full shot would have done. Which would have been fiery death." And then she was hugging him again. Stranger smiled at the ceiling and moved his pick lined arm close enough that he could rest his hand on her back, then slipped back into medicated slumber.

-------

He thought about that moment fondly several days later, after he got himself released to the care of George's private bevy of doctors and now had to face the media circus that was on the other side of the hospital doors. It turned out that there had been a security camera keeping an eye on the parking lot they'd been in. The footage had hit Youtube so hard that it had left a dent, and it had only blown up from there. The fact that he was an published author of horror stories where people did stupid things and got themselves mutilated for it only made it worse. And then he'd patented the plans for the superconductor, and the world had collectively flipped its shit over him. Now he was going to have to walk through the reporters and such whom he'd so successfully avoided for the past week (by being unconscious or medicated, sure, but still) and that was, for some reason, more terrifying than getting shot with flaming napalm. Maybe because this he'd known about beforehand.

He turned to Persephone, who was leaving with him. "I know I promised I wouldn't tempt death anymore," he told her, "But I really don't see any way out of it this time."

She laughed at him. So did George, who was on his other side. "Honestly, it isn't a death sentence," he said. "It's fine."

"Says you," Stranger retorted. "You're the one who has to deal with something like this once a month."

"So do you, but you just ignore it," George told him.

"No, then I flip them off and run away," Stranger said. He looked back at the crowd of reporters. He hoped it was his imagination, and that they weren't really baying for blood. He shuddered. Turning back to Persephone, he said, "I know that you are going to take me out to dinner, but I intend to pay the first time, because I can afford it now. You can stand up for women another time. And if I die, you can have my CDs."

"Hey!" George said.

"You still get my DVDs," Stranger told him.

That was when Havisham arrived. (His full name was Lester Tristan Havisham. Stranger learned that, and for his own protection immediately forgot it.) He was the designated Big Guy Who Walks In Front Of Them To Make A Path. No one messed with Havisham when he wanted to get somewhere. "Ready?" he asked.

"Not at all, not in the least, no way," Stranger said. He was beginning to babble a bit, it seemed. "But let's go anyway, before I get readmitted."

So Havisham opened up the doors and Stranger did his absolute best to stay firmly in his wake.

"Mr. Stranger! What was it like?"

"Mr. Stranger, what was going through your mind?"

"Mr. Stranger! Would you have killed him?"

"How do you feel about your newfound wealth, Mr. Stranger!"

"How do you like all the attention, Mr. Stranger?"

Stranger was honestly tempted to stop and answer that last one, but thought better of it. He'd get eaten alive if he stopped moving. They were like piranha, honestly. So instead he ignored it all until he was firmly seated in the Caddy - back seat, not driving, unfortunately, because he was strictly forbidden, on pain of pain, from driving while on his meds. And while he was more than willing to abandon the hospital, he didn't want to find out exactly what his arm felt like unmedicated.

It was a mercifully short drive back to George's. Stranger kept himself slumped low in his seat to avoid being spotted, but considering the uniqueness of the Caddy and the fact that George kept waving to the paparazzi, he didn't think his tactic was successful in keeping them undiscovered. He knew that he was eventually going to have to give in and give someone an interview, but not just yet. He wanted his life to return to normalish for a bit, first.

Caroline was waiting for them in the (refurnished) foyer. "You know," she said, "I think you might be the most popular man in the country, just now. You might want to try running for president."

"Fuck you," Stranger said, and went to go hide in a guest room.

"You know, you might be useful after all," Caroline called after him, teasing. "We can just send you out and no one will even think about us."

"I repeat, fuck you." And then he collapsed into bed - an actually bed, not that hospital thing - and slept like the dead for the next fourteen hours.