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King Falls AM - Episode 5: Night of the Living Dread

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Summary: July 1, 2015 - Sammy & Ben learn of some breaking news regarding the Lake Hatchenhaw John Doe, but not everyone is as pleased as the broadcast duo.

[Podcast intro music]

Announcer Dear listeners, please note that the following program may contain views that do not reflect that of King Falls AM, its management, or its subsidiaries. Listener discretion is advised.

[KFAM intro music]

Sammy You’re listening to King Falls AM, that’s 660 on the radio dial. I’m your host, Sammy Stevens, and as always we are joined by producer and co-host extraordinaire, Ben Arnold.

Ben [trying not to be amused] You’re so- you’re so happy, aren’t you? You’re a child. Getting so giddy over that message.

Sammy Listening to a warning before a radio broadcast I’m on has literally been on the bucket list for a long time. Thanks Merv!

Ben *laughter* Ridiculous. A glutton for punishment.

Sammy What can I say? I enjoy a nice game of hard ball! Uh, y’know, but enough about what Merv doesn’t want you to hear, let’s talk about what he does want you to hear. And what do we have cooking tonight, Ben?

Ben Dude, it’s stacked alright? Stacked. We’ve got the- lovely Miss Emily Potter from the King Falls Library giving us her picks for enlightened summer reading.

Sammy Terrific! We always love speaking with Emily!

Ben You and me both.

Sammy I said “we,” Ben.

Ben Uh, I know. I- *breathes in* [stilted] I- We-We-uh, We’ve got some really cool news! here. We-we are announcing the line-up for the first annual King Falls Ambient Music Festival. That’s coming up the second hour.

Sammy Wait a second. The King Falls Ambient Music Festival? Is this town even big enough for a festival?

Ben Oh yeah! It’s like Coachella[1] but for hipsters that just want to relax. It’s all about “setting the mood.”

Sammy You know, I’m wondering if they’re gonna make it to a second annual.

Ben And then, um, [reluctant and slipping into mumbling] opening up the show we-we’ve got the- doctor *mumbling*

Sammy I-I’m sorry, Ben, what was that? You’re trailing off, buddy.

Ben We have that umm, *sniffs, lets out breath* one… guy. You know that- fo- w- talking about that *deep breath* one thing—

Sammy [trying to cut him off] Ben—

Ben —from a month ago or so—?

Sammy What? What are you talking about?

Ben You know— May- maybe we should start it with Uh, callers first! [mildly frantic] Just-uh-Give us a call at 424-279-3858 and let’s talk about… *tsk* anything! Let’s uh, whats your-whats your-whats-whats on your mind King Falls?

Sammy Ladies and gentlemen, put down your phones for a second. What Ben is trying to say is we’ve got a scoop here this evening on King Falls AM. We’re gonna be speaking with—

Ben [cutting Sammy off]Or you can tweet us! @kingfallsam. I-I-I will literally talk about anything right now. Even to Mr. Derschwitz about that weird toenail thing. Let-lets-lets go, people!

Sammy I thought we agreed—

Ben I know. Sammy, I’m sorry it’s just, [slightly more frantic] I’m-I’m not feelin’ the best here. Alright? my stomach, is all… knotted up, just thinking about this.

Sammy That is journalism. That feeling is journalism—

Ben [speaking over Sammy] I think it might actually be an ulcer! It Tastes, like Fear and Feels, like Cancer . It’s way more than anxiety. I-I’m gonna call Dr. Raúl, at break.

Sammy He’s a chiropractor!

Ben Maybe he can refer me?

Sammy Power through it, buddy! Look at this folks, we got somebody dialing into the hotline right now! You ready for this Ben? Come on.

Ben Please, be Reverend Hawthorne so we can talk about the Revival next month.

Sammy Oh stop it. You know he isn’t even scheduled!

Ben I just thought— maybe that’s how prayers work, I don’t know, I’m not a reverend!

Sammy King Falls AM, you’re on the air.

Dr. Rosenblum [Dr. Rosenblum’s voice is measured and monotonous and mildly creepy at all times] Good evening, this is Dr. Jeffery Rosenblum, with the, King Falls County Coroner’s Office.

Ben C-can I please just say—

Sammy Dr. Rosenblum, it is a pleasure to speak with you this evening.

Rosenblum Excited to be here, Sammy. Ecstatic even. We listen on slow nights.

Ben That’s the scariest thing I’ve ever heard.

Sammy Much appreciated, Doc. Now, as fate would have it, you were the overseeing physician working on the Lake Hatchenhaw John Doe, is that correct?

Ben Doc? Can you just, hold on for- one- moment- please?

Rosenblum Of course, Ben I—

Sammy Don’t start, Ben! We agreed to see this through.

Ben All I’m saying i- lemme finish- a- i-is that maybe it’s not our place *deep breath* to break this kind of news.

Sammy Fine. You know what? You’re right! Let’s just give this to our friends down at Channel 13 and let them be the ones to alert the public about this.

Ben [journalist voice] Doc, Ben Arnold. Tell us about cracking open the mystery body.

Sammy [quietly] Oh.

Rosenblum It’s true that I was the operating physician on that particular John Doe, y-es, irrefutablyy

Sammy Now, as I understand, your official report was released yesterday morning, doctor, but amazingly enough, not one publication or news station in our town- including King Falls AM- reported on it.

Rosenblum You are correct. Busy news day- one would assume.

Ben So, that means, you are— free to talk about it on air.

Rosenblum I would be elated

Sammy First and foremost on everyone’s minds: were there any signs of, uh, y’know, the lake mo- *sighs* I can’t.

Ben Did Kingsie make the body, bite the big one?

Rosenblum There was no evidence that a creature large or small had anything to do with the deceased.

Ben *sigh of relief* That- I knew Kingsie didn’t have it in her.

Sammy Now, Dr. Rosenblum, can you tell us if there was any foul play involved at all?

Rosenblum During our first autopsy we were not able to distinguish with certainty the cause of death. But there were no signs of foul play

Sammy I’m sorry, did you say “first” autopsy?

Ben [confused] Is that normal? Did you- find out the cause of death during the… second autopsy?

Rosenblum Indeed. It was six individual gunshot wounds to the victim’s head. Three shots to the temporal lobe, two to the mendulla oblongata—

Sammy What?! Six gunshot wounds?!

Rosenblum To the cranium, yes. One to the frontal lobe, another to—

Ben So the Lake Hatchenhaw John Doe was, murdered?

Sammy I can’t believe this! This is big! Why didn’t one news outlet report this thing yesterday?!

Rosenblum Well, the cause of death was inconclusive and with no signs of foul play, it was not exactly a juicy story.

Ben and Sammy Wait a second.

Rosenblum …yes?

Sammy I’m sorry, doc. I’m not in the medical orrr criminal fields but, how is six gunshots not foul play?

Rosenblum Well, that was between the first autopsy and the second. The gunshots were self-defense administered via Deputy Kreighauser at my behest.

Sammy Ben, we’re gonna wanna get Troy on the phone and see what he’s got to say about this.

Ben “Things Ben Arnold would never think under ordinary circumstances for 800, Alex.”[2]

Sammy Doc, while we’re getting Deputy Troy on the line, would you mind if we took a quick break to hear from one of our sponsors?

Rosenblum That’s just- Dandy.

[light bg music]

Greg Frickard After a long day’s work or a tough day’s play, you probably just wanna come home and relax. No need to slave over a hot stove for hours on end. Well that’s where we come in! Here at Granny Frickard’s, we know that the less time you spend doing the things you don’t like, is the more time you spend with the ones you love. So come get some of the best frog legs that money can buy. Granny Frickard’s French-fried farm-fresh never-frozen filleted-and-fricasseed fried-and-flambeed frog legs. Mm-mm-mm. So get on down to Granny Frickard’s Froggery at the corner of Main Street and 7th Avenue. We’ll put some pep in your step and some hop in your heart.

[KFAM intro music]

Sammy And we’re back on King Falls AM, here with King Falls County Coroner, Dr. Jeffery Rosenblum.

Rosenblum A Pleasure.

Sammy Do you have Troy, Ben?

Ben He’s booking one of the Williams boys for mooning. He’ll call us in a few.

Sammy I’m a little out of sorts here, doc. Can you explain what happened between the first inconclusive autopsy and the point where Troy filled the cadaver full of lead.

Rosenblum Of course. As I was finishing the initial post-mortem, it came to my attention that the deceased began to emit a hissing sound, fluctuating between the lower thorax and the larynx.

Ben Oh my God.

Rosenblum I called for Deputy Kreighauser and he entered, as I wanted someone else to see this- phenomenon. That’s when the John Doe began a slight, thrashing about the upper torso.

Ben Um… are you saying—

Rosenblum The deputy began to fumble for his sidearm while we both discerned that something was wildly- amiss. The deceased opened its eyes and instantly grabbed for the lapel of my lab coat with voracious tenacity.

Ben Wh- ah- go on.

Rosenblum It gnashed its teeth as I emitted a terrified, albeit, high pitched, scream. And that’s when Troy unholstered his sidearm and administered six lethal shots to the reanimated corpse’s cranium.

Ben A zombie.

Sammy Alright, is there- [fumbling] Let’s just say- is there-

Ben We’ve got Troy on the line.

Deputy Troy [in bg] I don’t care if he was only joshin’. You can’t show your G-D derriere out in public! [car door slams] [pleasantly] Hey boys, what’s goin’ on tonight?

Sammy You tell us, Troy, holy geez! Uh, we’ve got Dr. Rosenblum on the line here and—

Deputy Troy Is this about the zombie?

Ben Yes! So-so you’re confirming this story, Troy?

Deputy Troy Well, hell yeah I’m confirming! I had to do three hours of damn paper work from unloadin’ my pistola into a corpse! Sheriff Gunderson was not the happiest of campers.

Ben [excited and awed] This is amazing… This is unprecedented .

Sammy [skeptical] This is a little unbelievable, Troy.

Rosenblum It is a first in my profession. Believe you me. [still tonelessly] Wowzers.

Deputy Troy Honest engine[3] boys. I capped the all get out of that thing! It had the doc by the face ‘bout to start chewing!

Rosenblum You’re my hero, Deputy Troy.

Deputy Troy Shucks, wasn’t nothin’ special.

Ben [slightly sullen] Except killing the first instance of a zombie in King Falls since—

Sammy Don’t say “since”.

Ben … Well… Since that one time at the mall in the '80s.

Sammy No, that’s not a real thing, Ben. That’s a film.

Ben [worked up] Sammy? How many extraordinary things are gonna have to SLAP you right in the face to make you buy into this? KING FALLS, MAN.

Deputy Troy You know me, Sammy. I always shoot ya straight. But it was the craziest sh[bleep]t I’ve ever seen. I mean it was like my-ex-wife-needs-alimony-money crazy.

Ben See? Even Barney Fife[4] saw it.

Sammy *sighs* I just—

Rosenblum I don’t want to cause an uproar here, but since that exam, there have been, other cases.

Ben Of frickin’ zombies?

Rosenblum Of reanimation among corpses… yes.

Deputy Troy Doc, you just give me a call if you need. I’m more than happy to go Clint Eastwood if the situation arises.

Rosenblum Will do, Deputy. Thank you so much for your- assistance. Without you, there may not have been this- interview.

Deputy Troy [proud] To protect and serve.

Sammy I can’t take all this in right now, Dr. Rosenblum I- e- Thank you so much for your insightful information.

Rosenblum As they say, [still monotone] “you got it, duude.”

[click, dial tone]

Ben You okay, Sammy? You… don’t look so well.

Deputy Troy Ah, hell, boys.[siren whoop] I gotta go. I’ll call you back later tonight! One of the Williams boys is tryin’ ta saw through the bars outside the jailhouse? [sirens in bg] [through megaphone] Jacob Williams put your hands UP and the file DOWN.

[click, dial tone]

Ben Alright King Falls, you’ve heard our story, let’s hear yours. Have you or anyone you know experienced anything like what the doctor spoke of? Reanimation? The walking—

Sammy Don’t.

Ben You know what I mean. Give us a call or tweet us.

Sammy Looks like the board is lighting up!

Ben Um…

Sammy What’s up? Okay, it can’t be any crazier than what we just heard, Ben.

Ben Line One, Sammy.

Sammy Welcome to King Falls AM, you’re on with Sammy and Ben.

Line 1 [female, almost sounds automated] Good evening, Sammy—

Sammy Do I know you ma'am?

Riley — please hold for Mayor Grisham.

Ben He… Probably just wants us to— mark these tapes as, evidence. *nervous laugh* Right, Sammy?

Sammy Or burn them.

Riley Sammy Stevens, Mayor Grisham.

Sammy Mayor?

Mayor Grisham Sammy… Ben.

Sammy You’re on live on King Falls AM, sir.

Mayor Grisham [commanding] Take me off and go to break. We need to chat.

Sammy No can do. Ben says we aren’t scheduled for break for another- uh- at least ten minutes.

Mayor Grisham Ben. Cut. To. Commercial.

Ben Uh- uh- uh- the thing is- I- I- I can’t- do that. Sir.

Mayor Grisham [threateningly pleasant] You boys want to talk live on air? We can talk live on air.

Sammy [challenging] Nothin’ to hide on this end of the phone, Mayor Grisham.

Mayor Grisham I hear your snide remarks, Sammy. I’ve read the transcripts.

Sammy Which! let’s be honest, is pretty weird. We’re a late night AM talk show, why are you bothering with us?

Mayor Grisham Oh, I don’t bother with you. I try to keep up to date with all the local news and entertainment. I gotta say, I was really happy a big city radio guy decided to come play host at our little radio station.

Sammy Well, I’m more than happy to—

Mayor Grisham I wasn’t finished… But I have to say, I’m a little less than thrilled with [accusingly] all the excitement you brought with you.

Sammy I’d hardly call reporting the news “excitement”, sir—

Mayor Grisham It’s interesting to me that I don’t see Channel 13 breaking these crazy stories.

Ben [quickly] No offense, your honor, but those idiots don’t know their a[bleep]holes from their elbows.

Mayor Grisham And you boys being on site when these “events” happen? [softly, still accusing] It’s a little bit of a coincidence don’t you think?

Sammy Are you insinuating that we are staging these events, Mayor?

Mayor Grisham I’m stating facts. I’m sure your ratings are way, way up there since all these sensational events seem to coincide with your broadcast. Why do you think that is? Furthermore, I mean who’s up listening to you at this ungodly hour of the night?!

Sammy Seemingly most of the town, Sir. As well as whomever you’ve hired to keep an ear on us.

Mayor Grisham I’ve tried to be nice about this… And I tried to be civil… but I think it’s about time that you troublemakers changed formats. No more of this funny business. It’s not good for the listeners. It’s not good for the residents. And honestly? it’s not good for me. I don’t appreciated being painted in this light, gentlemen.

Sammy Oh! You mean the light where you as a public service,[sic] try to quell the voice of the people.

Ben It’s not your right to tell us what we can and can’t report on, sir. All due respect.

Mayor Grisham [rudely] All due respect, Ben Arnold. Just a couple of months ago you were digging up old records on eBay for Chet Sebastian to run on about. Now you’re a media star?? That’s worrisome! Seems you fellas have All the reasons in the world to fabricate these issues, and I have to say I’m not gonna sit here and listen to this, while you LIE TO THE GOOD PEOPLE OF KING FALLS.

Sammy Well, when we start “fabricating” and “making things up,” you can come throw the book at us. But until then- [click, dial tone] Whoops! Looks like you just got disconnected. I’d wait for you to give us a call back and all, but with it not being an election year I probably shouldn’t hold my breath.

Ben Line One iiis lit up again, Sammy.

Sammy [insincerely] Oh, sorry about that Mayor! I must have fabricated accidentally dumping your call when-

Esther Rollens [heavy metal music in bg] [voice old and wavering] Did you boys fund a lavender ball of yarn in there? Been looking for it all week! [click, dial tone]

Ben [shaken] Sammy, I think that commercial might do us some good right now.

[KFAM outro]

[CREDITS]

References

[1] Coachella - The Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival (commonly called Coachella or the Coachella Festival) is an annual music and arts festival held at the Empire Polo Club in Indio, California, in the Coachella Valley in the Colorado Desert.

[2] Reference to the TV game show Jeopardy!

[3] I honestly can’t tell if he’s saying “honest engine” or “honest injun” but i’mma go with the one that’s technically incorrect but also not super racist.

[4] Barney Fife - Deputy from the Andy Griffith Show. Calling a police officer or authority figure "Barney Fife" has become an American slang term for gross ineptitude or overzealousness.

#king falls am #king falls #kfam #sammy stevens #ben arnold #troy krieghauser #dr. jeffrey rosenblum #mayor grisham #kfam transcripts #kfam ep5

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practicingmedicine · 3 years

Text

Practicing Medicine: Chapter Three

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“Oh, that’s terrible! I mean, I had known that Penny was sick, but I didn’t know that she had cancer !” said Mrs. McBain. She gave my hand a tight squeeze, and then released it. “If there’s anything we can do…”

“There’s one thing,” I said. Both Mrs. McBain and her recovering husband looked up at me. “Look after my momma. Make her nice meals, give her hugs, and send a letter to the followers if anything happens. I hope I won’t be gone for long, but if I don’t come back…” I thought for a moment. “Look for help. If you can’t find any, at least make her comfortable.”

Mr. and Mrs. McBain shared a look that suggested they were worried about me. “Of course, I’m sure that ain’t gonna happen. I just like to plan for the worst!” Mr. McBain smiled at me from his bed.

“I appreciate that kind of thinking, son. Things can go to hell in a handbasket pretty quick,” said the Sheriff. His wife glared at him.

“He’s not going to die, Kurt! Don’t you suggest that kind of thing!”

“I wasn’t suggesting nothin! Just saying that it’s good to have a plan- it’s a staple of being a good doctor, or so I hear,” said Mr. McBain, looking at me again. I forced a laugh.

“Yeah, I guess it is! Now, you two, can you do that? Can you look after my mom for a few weeks?” Immediately, Mrs. McBain nodded. Mr. McBain gave a thumbs up.

“Of course, Isaac! It’s the least we can do, really,” said Mrs. McBain. I smiled.

“Thank you,” I replied, and headed for the door. Mom might come looking for me soon, and this’d be one of the first places she’d check.

“Wait, Isaac- do you want to call your mom before you leave?” suggested Mrs. McBain, putting a hand on my shoulder. I shook my head.

“No. Well, yes, but I’m afraid that she’ll change my mind.” I hung my head. I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity, but I needed to do this. I suspected that I was going to have to make a lot of these kinds of choices in the near future. “Thank you though. I’ll try to repay you somehow when I get back.”

“Isaac, dear, you already have.”

I smiled at that. “If you say so.” A cloud of dust blew in around my legs as I opened the door. “See you folks soon- tell Mom I said goodbye, and that I love her!”

And just like that, I left behind everything I knew, and strode into unknown territory.

-Break-

Well, not really, “ Unknown territor y,” not yet. The next place I went was the town square, which was quiet and empty today. I was thankful for that. I strode past mom’s Casino, which was my next destination, and crouched down next to a little patch of brown grass and concrete between the sidewalk and Bison Steve’s. That was where Father had been shot. After that, he backpedaled for a while, and then ran into the side of the Casino, where he fell down and bled out.

I walked over to the wall. Me and mom had painted it together, before he died and after. I usually left him something; The first time it had been the snow globe he was going to give me, then it had been cactus flowers, and it kept changing after that. Whenever it stormed, the items got swept away, which I was okay with. He wasn’t even buried there, and it wasn’t like he was in any state to need the stuff. I would just start over, leaving something new every time.

But not this time. Not only was that in the past that I was trying to leave behind, but it was also kind of stupid, as I was starting to realize. Instead, I just crouched down next to the spot, put down my bag, and tried to make myself look presentable.

“Howdy, Father- I’m going on a little adventure, out in the wastes. I’d be real grateful if you could watch over Momma til I get back.” I didn’t know much about communing with spirits- still don’t, but it felt like a nice thing to do. After all, I was going to be gone for a while.

And after that, I stood up, wiped away the tears that had been gathering in my eyes, and walked into mom’s bustling Casino. The mysterious new city of New Vegas had taken a toll on business, but Primm still had the most convenient Casino on this side of the Mojave.

“Good evening, Mr. Saller! How you doing- I heard you saved the Sheriff’s life today!” said Johnson Nash, an old, wrinkly-skinned man and the overseer of the Mojave Express mail delivery here in Primm. I smiled as I approached him.

“Howdy Mr. Nash. My mom is dying of cancer. Are there any caravans passing through here?”

Mr. Nash looked surprised. His gaze shifted to the window. “Well, I… Really, Penny? I’m so sorry, boy, she’s always seemed so strong to me! I never would have guessed that she…” he turned his head to look at me again. “Sorry. I’m reminiscing. You just missed an NCR caravan heading up to Nipton. If the schedule keeps going like it has been, another caravan should show up next month…”

“Crud,” I muttered. I thought about saying something less polite, but Mr. Nash didn’t like me swearing.

“Sorry,” said Mr. Nash. Then, his expression changed. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, I almost forgot! There’s an unsponsored one preparing to leave right now, bound straight for New Vegas. It’s a little caravan, three people, a couple of brahmin and a wagon. They’ve run the route a few times, but they don’t usually pass through here. The leader- Gram, I think it was, says he’s with the NCR. He’s got a ranger with him, so normally, I’d be inclined to believe him. But, the NCR never told me about them like they do with the rest of their caravans, and only the ranger wears a uniform.”

I started to walk away. “Thanks, Mr. Nash--where can I find them?”

“They’re out back behind the Casino, sort of over by the hitching posts, but I wouldn’t mess with them. They seem kind of shady to me,” he said. I turned my head to grin at him.

“Oh, I’ll be fine, Mr. Nash. I’m sure they’ll jump at the opportunity to get a doctor on board!”

-Break-

“Hands behind your head! That’s right, don’t move an inch!”

I shouted out in pain and surprise as the great-big person with the ranger uniform pushed their boot even harder against the small of my back, no doubt leaving a bruise. Without even registering it, I had moved both of my hands behind my head.

“Good. Hoplite, search him!”

A stout, bespectacled ghoul wearing a plaid three-piece suit with a tan cowboy-hat sauntered into my field of view. I hadn’t met many ghouls before, but I could tell by his demeanor that he was no spring chicken. Maybe pre war, maybe not, but definitely vintage. Maybe even antique. He stared at me for a while, then took off his hat, and tilted his head in my direction.

“He’s got nothin, Tandi. If he had a gat, he would have tried to reach for it when you spotted him,” said the ghoul. My ribcage felt like it was going to crack open as the ranger put even more weight onto their one foot.

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I bet he’s a legion slave, check his collar, look for brands on his skin!”

“I ain’t a slave,” I said, and instantly regretted speaking. The ranger laughed, a strange, hollow sound once it got passed through the helmet.

“Well, the kid ain’t a slave! What a goddamn relief!” The cheery Texan twang didn’t mesh with the deep, slavic voice. Every word that the ranger spoke sent chills down my spine.

“Look!” I shouted. I reached for my coat collar, and the ranger raised their foot and jammed their heel into my back again, harder than before. I screamed out something incomprehensible.

“Try it again, slave-boy-“ I could hear the ranger pull the bolt back on their submachine-gun, and I’m pretty sure I pissed my pants a little. “…And I put a round in your kidney! Maybe death don’t scare you, but pain like that’ll make a tough man cry. Ain’t that right Hoplite?”

The ghoul let out a tired sigh. “I’m not about to play good-cop bad-cop with you, Tandi. Let the poor kid go.” The Ranger kept their foot on my back for a few more seconds, pressing just hard enough to give me a sharp pain in my ribcage. Finally, they released me, leaving me aching in the sand.

As soon as I had recovered enough to breath, I flipped myself onto my back and started coughing. My whole goddamn chest was aching, which was an unfamiliar and unpleasant feeling. Of course, that wasn’t what I was thinking about. I was instead thinking about how I almost got shot, how I almost died less than an hour into my journey, how I almost failed my momma…

I started crying. I knew immediately that it was a bad idea, so I kept it silent, but I couldn’t help but let a few tears leak down my face. No one seemed to notice it, probably because they were still talking amongst themselves.

“…we do with him? Like, I’d feel kind of bad leaving him here…”

“Whoa, big friggin’ idea right here: why don’t we ask him what he was doing? He don’t look like a bad guy to me…”

“Leave him here. He’s a runt and a coward, and the only thing I-“

“Buzz off, Tandi! No one invited you to this conversation!”

“Yeah, shut up, the adults are talking!”

“What? I am thirty years your senior, Savvy! ”

“… Ladies, please. If we don’t make a decision soon, I think the suspense might kill him.”

“Still time for me to kill him.”

“Hush! I think he’s listening to us!”

All eyes turned to me. After a few seconds of feeling like a bug in a magnifying glass, I threw my arms into the air and craned my neck in what I can only describe as a full-body shrug. The ghoul laughed as my arms and legs thumped against the sand.

“Did that hurt? That looked like it hurt,” said the person who I hadn’t seen yet. I could hear her walking closer to me. I didn’t look up.

“Little bit,” I admitted. She was standing behind my head now, and, not wanting to lift my neck, I strained my eyes to look up at her. I couldn’t see her so well against the glare of the sun, but I could make out the general look; she was a young, heavy-ish woman with a bob of black hair and what I recognized to be some-kind-of-Asian features, wearing a faded floral sundress and a floppy hat. I smiled up at her, and she smiled back.

“Howdy there!” I said, and then regretted speaking so loud. My chest still ached.

“Hi! I’m sorry about our ranger. She’s kind of aggressive,” said the girl. I snorted. “Anyways, what’s your name? And, uh, would you like to stand?”

“Isaac, and no, not really,” I replied. Still smiling, she withdrew her hand.

“That’s okay. What were you doing back here? Was this just bad luck, or were you trying to find us?” I nodded absently.

“Both, I think.” I saw the ghoul cast a sidelong glance at the ranger.

“A wise guy? Oh, this’ll be fun. Maybe we should kill him after all,” said the ghoul, and I laughed a laugh that was really just a thinly veiled prayer to God that he was joking. The girl gave him a look.

“Gram, hush. Why were you looking for us? And don’t beat around the bush anymore, I hate it when people do that.”

Normally I would agree with her on that, but I felt like I had a little bit of a right to be insufferable. Given the circumstances.

Don’t push your luck, I thought to myself, you want to join up with these folks. You can still spin this to your advantage! Except, I didn’t really know how I was gonna do that. None of them were taking any sort of pity on me, so I doubted I could play the poor, innocent boy card, and I wouldn’t press the dying momma thing. Past that… well, I wasn’t really sure what to say.

First though, I decided to stand up. I couldn’t have looked very impressive, lying in the dirt like I was. Trying to appear as though I weren’t in incredible pain, I stood and dusted myself off. I turned to face the girl in the dress, who was looking awful unimpressed with me.

“Well, since you asked me so nice, I’ll keep it simple- I need to get to New Vegas as soon as possible. Someone at the casino told me about y’all, so I came to see if you might take me on.” I turned my head to look at the ghoul. “You’re Gram, right? Nash told me about you. Said you were kinda shady, but I trusted that I’d be alright.”

The Ghoul nodded. “Yeah, that’s me. Sorry, but we ain’t taking any new members. We run a taut ship here, and to be honest, I don’t think we need anyone else gumming up the works.” I started to talk, but the ghoul raised a hand to silence me. “And, forget about paying to come along, because this job here is paying enough for my retirement! Don’t think I didn’t see that look in your eyes, kid.”

There went that avenue. I tried not to look defeated.

“That’s alright! I don’t got much money anyways,” I said, which was technically true- I wasn’t very liquid right now. “I was thinking about offering my services. I’m a doctor, see!”

“Nah, see, I already told you, we don’t- wait!” I could see the look on his face change as he registered what I said. “Wait, a doctor? Ah, I should’ve guessed by the coat! You roll with the Followers?”

“No. I’m looking to see them, actually. My aunt Julie leads this here chapter, and my father was a big shot there. Taught me a thing or two, before he died.” I said. I showed him the badge on my coat, which was a little metal circle with a stenciled-on cross with forked ends and a circle at the point where the two lines crossed. He examined it for a moment, then nodded.

“Badge seems genuine, so I don’t think you’re lying about your pops. But, how do I know you’re any good as a doctor? We can’t exactly have you perform a demonstration.”

I had a solution to this one!

“That’s easy! I saved a man’s life this morning, and I can prove it! Name’s Kurt McBain- he’s the Sheriff of this town. Ask anyone in that Casino, and they’ll tell you that I’m not lying. Mrs. McBain shared the news with everyone , so there’s no shortage of people who know,” I said, grumbling the last part like I was disappointed. I was secretly thrilled that she’d told so many people, but I was pretending to be disappointed because it seemed more in-character.

“Cook, why don’t you go check up on that story? Tandi, go check the perimeter, make sure this isn’t some sort of distraction. I think I’d like to talk to the kid alone.”

The other two members of the group departed wordlessly, leaving me alone behind the Casino with Gram, the weird ghoul who spoke like a gangster from one of the pre-war crime novels that my father would read me sometimes. He scared me less than the ranger, but more than the other person- Cook, he had called her. I couldn’t really put a finger on why.

“So, Isaac, let’s assume you’re telling me the truth, for a moment. Just how good of a doctor are you?” asked Gram, walking past me to lean against the peeling Casino wall. I thought for a moment. That was a hard question.

“Well I’m more of a medic, really- general physician in a pinch, but I studied for trauma. Given enough supplies, I can patch up most folks who haven’t got irreversible organ damage,” I replied, thinking back to how I’d repaired the Sheriff’s leaky artery with a stimpack. I might’ve been able to fix it without one, too, if I knew going in what exactly I’d be doing, but I wasn’t sure if I trusted my emergency sutures to hold on their own just yet...

We talked for some time about what I’d done, and what I could do if I absolutely had to. I explained to him that if I set up a pip-boy profile for everyone in advance, I’d be able to get all sorts of information that I’d otherwise have to find out the old-fashioned way. All the while, Gram was scratching the back of his neck, looking over at the back door to the Casino like a deathclaw might come bursting out at any moment. He always kept one hand in his coat.

“Well, Cook’ll be getting back pretty soon, and I’ll call Tandi over the radio once Cook gets back. Assuming you ain’t lying or holding anything back, then you’re on. I’ll give you ten minutes to pack up, and then we’re leaving.”

Despite everything, I smiled- I just couldn’t help it! The sun hadn’t even set, and I was already starting my journey to save my mom. No one could tell me it was just an idea now, because I was taking actions- taking risks, I realized, and it was already paying off. I was elated!

Suddenly, the back door to the Casino opened up. Cook stepped out, her expression unreadable.

“Hey, Gram? So, I asked around, and I’m pretty sure that he’s for real. There were some people who hadn’t heard about the incident, but most of the people who I talked to confirmed that the story was true,” she said. Gram raised one of his bushy eyebrows.

“Hm. How many is, “most?” How was your sample size?”

“Eight out of the Ten people who I asked answered in the affirmative. No one actually denied the story, they just denied knowledge of it. The details didn’t deviate much between accounts, either.”

Gram turned his whole upper body to look at me. He whistled. “Damn, Isaac! Either you’re the fifth best conman I’ve ever met, or you ain’t kidding about the whole doctor thing. I’m gonna go with the latter, because I’ve usually got a pretty good eye for cons.”

“Are you sure, Gram? Not knowing about it is what makes a good con. What if you’ve been getting tricked all the time, and you’re so bad at spotting cons that you didn’t see most of them- even in retrospect!” suggested Cook. Gram scoffed.

“Please- when you’re alive for as long as me, you learn a thing or two about people and their tricks.” He sounded cross, but I could tell that he was smiling. Cook made a dramatic gesture.

“That’s what they want you to think! It’s how they’ve tricked you for so long!”

“Who’s tricked who?” asked the ranger, emerging around the corner with their barking-iron drawn. Every muscle in my body tensed as I tried not to jump out of my skin.

“Cook was telling me about all the cons I’ve apparently missed. I got a pretty good eye for cons, right, Tandi?”

“How do you know you can trust my answer?”

Cook grinned from ear to ear, and I found myself smiling too- her grin was infectious. “I told you! You’ve been blind this whole time, Gram! I guess living so long has given you some sort of complex…”

Could I wedge my way into this conversation? Did I even want to? The group seemed to run on an awful lot of unspoken rules and agreements, and I definitely didn’t get the impression that I had been invited to this particular conversation just yet.

“Et Tu, Isaac? Has this all been some sort of set up?” Gram asked, throwing his arms out and contriving to look betrayed. I took my invitation and tried real hard to look menacing.

“I’m sorry brother, but you shouldn’t have crossed the mob. You saw what happened to Sunny, didn’t you?” I said, making a little finger gun and calling desperately on my vague knowledge of “The Godfather.” Gram raised an eyebrow.

“First off, that’s not what Pacino sounds like and Michael didn’t kill Sonny. Second, you’ve seen The Godfather?” He sounded more intrigued than surprised. I shook my head.

“Read it, actually. My father read me a lot of books when I was younger. Are you from New York?” I stopped. That was a weird place to end the sentence, since they couldn’t understand the train of thought that led there. “Sorry. It’s just, we were talking about The Godfather, and you sound a lot like the voice my father would put on when he was playing New York mobsters.” Gram looked at me strangely, or at least I imagined he did, then nodded.

“Yeah, yeah I lived in Brooklyn before the war. I’ve been a lot of places since then…” He seemed to think for a moment. “Have you seen what New York looks like nowadays? It’s worse than the Capital Waste. If I hadn’t gotten outta there, I’m sure I would’ve gotten killed by now.”

“Well, I haven’t been, but-“ I started, getting ready to recount one of my many stories about father’s adventures with the Followers. Before I could finish, the ranger stepped between us.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Hoplite, but the sun’s setting, and I don’t want to spend another night in this shithole. Are we taking him or not?”

Gram shrugged. “Depends. Are you sure you wanna come…”

“Isaac,” I said. Gram nodded.

“Right. Now, Isaac, before you agree to anything, I feel like I’m obligated to warn you about the dangers of this run. There are raiders out there, there are legion assassins, mutants, and because of these things there will probably be death. We haven’t had a casualty in years, but you’re still probably going to watch someone die.” That last one hit me like a punch in the gut, but I think I managed to keep my reaction under wraps. I just nodded. “You ever seen someone die, Isaac? Are you gonna shut down on us as soon as someone gets shot?”

“Yes, I have,” I replied, and left it that. Gram looked satisfied.

“Good. Let’s get going. Isaac- as of this moment, you’re hired. I’ll give you ten minutes to pack. Be quick,” he said, shooing me away. I shook my head.

“Actually, I’m already packed.” In retrospect, I probably should have taken a few choice magazines with me, but those weren’t particularly vital. I had my jump bag with me, and I had the clothes on my back.

It was kind of sad, actually, to think that I didn’t own a single item worth taking with me that I wasn’t already carrying. Maybe I just wasn’t thinking hard enough.

“Well, in that case, we’ve got no time to waste- let’s hit the road!”

Under normal circumstances, I’d have felt awful sad, leaving home like this, not knowing if I was ever gonna return. But today, I was satisfied. I’d made a decision, and I was finding a way to carry it out!

“Cya soon, momma,” I mumbled, and loaded my bag onto the back of the wagon. I was leaving all-standing, and the journey ahead of me would surely be long, dangerous, and full of unpleasant surprises. I might even die a horrible death, end up face down in a pool of radioactive waste...

I’d never been more thrilled in my entire life!

[+]

#fallout #fallout fanfic #fallout fanfiction #fallout fandom

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junker-town · 5 years

Text

Gus Johnson wants to live in the present

The man whose voice will boom throughout history couldn’t be enjoying the present more.

There are still 40 minutes before kickoff in Ann Arbor, and Gus Johnson is looking for a brush.

“I’m the only broadcaster who can still use a wave brush,” he says to the handful of people in the booth awaiting the start of Army-Michigan on Fox. “I’ve got a hairline at 52!”

Johnson is loose and energetic — the exact way you’d imagine him off the air. The Detroit native is extra comfortable today, as he’s getting ready to call the game of the team he grew up admiring: the Michigan Wolverines.

He’s walking around the broadcast booth, through the press box, and in the home team’s radio booth, sharing smiles and hugs before the game. He dances to French Montana’s “No Stylist”, which is booming throughout the Big House, for Joel Klatt’s Instagram, before egging on Klatt to do his own dancing. “Come on, Joel! You got some boogie in you, baby!”

Johnson then pulls his chair back and gets into a yoga routine right there in the broadcast booth. Unconcerned with what he might look like, Johnson is all over the place. He’s anywhere from a simple toe-touching stretch, to hips in the air, or laying on the floor, executing his routine in his white dress shirt with shades of green and brown checkers, a forest green tie, slacks, and G-Star Raw sneakers.

After about 10 or so minutes, he’s done, exclaiming to Klatt, “Joel, my shoulders are coming back! You’re gonna have trouble, bro! You’re gonna have trouble, bro!” Somehow, his clothes seem not a stitch out of place, despite testing his body’s boundaries.

It’s about time to get the party started, because that’s what it is when Johnson calls a game, be it football or basketball. His call sheet, wave brush, and coffee are placed neatly in front of where he’ll be in the booth for the game. Scottie Dothard, his longtime spotter, arrives in a mustard-colored collared shirt and jeans, binoculars in hand, ready to help Johnson on another successful game called in the booth.

Up until this point, it’s been all preparation with random people coming in and out of the press box getting things from and for Johnson and Klatt. And then, the big television lights go on in the booth. They’re incredibly bright, even at noon on a clear and sunny day. Johnson and Klatt turn to the camera, ready to bring America to Michigan Stadium on the second weekend of the 2019 college football season.

Fox’s music begins playing, and it’s showtime. “Welcome to the Big House here in Ann Arbor,” Johnson says. “Over 100,000 fans ready to watch the red hot Army Black Knights taking on the seventh-ranked Michigan Wolverines.

“Hi, everybody. I’m Gus Johnson, along with my partner Joel Klatt, and welcome to Ann Arbor.”

It’s the day before the game, and there are more than four hours until the production meeting, but Johnson is in the conference room of the Ypsilanti Marriott where he’s staying, ready to work. He’s looking slick with a fresh Nike zip-up jacket, black T-shirt, joggers, and a fitted Detroit Tigers cap with the top of his ears tucked in.

On the end of the conference room table sit two big white sheets of construction paper, two remotes to work the DVD player and TV (which has Army’s game from the week before vs. Rice on it), a folder with “GUS” written small in the top left corner, one set of 12 skinny Sharpies, one set of 24 regular-sized Sharpies, three highlighters, and a water glass turned upside down over a napkin with a peppermint on top. There’s also a yoga mat in his seat because he needs it for stretching.

He removes the yoga mat, still in its original wrapping, from the seat, settles in by taking his hat off and placing it to the side, and gets to work. “Everybody does this on computer, right?” he says. “But I’m old school.”

He won’t use all of the colors, just black for the Black Knights, and blue for the Wolverines.

After conducting a quick assessment of where I’m from, what I do, and Johnson proudly declaring, “I got shoes older than you,” Johnson starts recalling his upbringing, which included many days spent at the Boys & Girls Club in Detroit.

When Johnson was around 9 years old, the Boys & Girls Club had an oratorical contest that Johnson’s mother Btroy found out about from a bulletin board. She was good at checking bulletin boards to find out about events and opportunities, and he has proudly developed the same habit.

”In my mind, I was like, ‘Wow, that could be interesting. Seems like something cool.’”

He made up a speech and put on a suit with a tie, a nice shirt, and some hard-bottomed shoes. “Roach stompas, as we called them back then,” he says. “I had them Stacy Adams.”

Johnson went in and won the contest. He didn’t think much of it, and when the time came around next year, he didn’t mention it to his mother because he had a baseball game and didn’t want to miss it. She was also working that day, so Johnson thought he was in the clear.

“I was pitching — pitching good that day too,” he says. He starts looking off into the room as if he’s seeing it happen all over again right in front of him. “All of a sudden, I see this little lady, walking through the gate, her wig tilted, walking fast.”

Btroy walked through the dugout gate, past the dugout, past the coaches, and onto the field. “She walked straight to the mound where I was,” he recalls. “I said, ‘Mom, what are you doing? I’m pitching.’ She said, ‘Boy, I don’t care what you doing. Here’s a pair of shorts, here’s a Boys Club T-shirt. You see them picnic tables over there?’ I said, ‘Yeah.’ She said, ‘You gon’ go over there, here’s a pen, and here’s a pad. And you gon’ write a speech. And you gon’ go up there, today, at 6 o’clock, and you gon’ say that speech.’ I said, ‘Mama, I’m pitchin’!’ She said, ‘Boy!’ — and whenever ya mama say ‘Boy!’ It’s serious.”

Btroy told Johnson, “You always gotta be fast on your feet. You always gotta be able to think quickly. Put something together. Scramble, if you have to. Now get over there and write that speech.”

Contest organizers called Btroy beforehand to tell her they wanted her son back because of his talent for speaking. Johnson went over to the table, mad, 10 years old, and cursing under his breath. He wrote the speech, went to the contest, gave the speech, and won.

”From that point on,” he says, “I always realized I was good on my feet. I could talk.”

That talent wasn’t prioritized for a while. He didn’t grow up thinking that he wanted to be the next great sportscaster. “I envisioned myself replacing Lou Whittaker as the second baseman of the Detroit Tigers,” he says. He later thought he’d become a doctor or lawyer, and you don’t need to be some sort of oratorical artist in either of those fields.

His baseball career did take him to college, though, where he played at Howard. While there, former player Glenn Harris was the sports director at the local radio station, WHUR-FM in Washington D.C. Harris would often show up to practice and Johnson got to know him.

Johnson ran into Harris one day and asked him how he liked being a sportscaster. Harris told him that he enjoyed it, and added he thought it was funny he asked him because that particular day was his intern’s last day on the job. Harris told him, “Go down the hill, talk to Mrs. Grimes, and see if you can apply for the job, if you’re interested.”

So he did, and he got the job, which paid $500 a semester. “I was on scholarship at Howard,” he says. “I think that was a violation. But I ain’t going to tell nobody. $500? A semester? Which, you know, 1987, that’s good bread!”

But he wasn’t done. He then walked down the hall and knocked on the door at the student radio station next to the main radio station to get experience on the air. Johnson walked in, introduced himself, and asked to apply for a sportscaster job to get on-air experience. Like the internship, nobody had applied, and Johnson got that job, too.

”Just like that. It was very serendipitous for me to be in that position that early. I just fell in love with it. Just — head over heels.” He stops to make sure that I understand him, and looks me right in my eyes. He says in a very serious tone, “No, really. Head over heels.”

Johnson gets up to get a snack, pats Dothard on the shoulder as he walks to the table and says, “He got the gat in his boot!” Dothard laughs, and says, “I’m not here to protect you. I’m here to protect everybody else from you!” The two have worked with each other for over 15 years, going back to their days at CBS.

Dothard tries to keep Johnson in check to make sure he stays true to himself. “I say, ‘Man, if you study way too much, I’ll kill ya,’” a statement which gets a nice chuckle out of Johnson, who is now back at the table and seated with a plate of cauliflower and celery, dressed in ranch. “Because you won’t be able to pay attention to the game. You paying attention to the game is a gift,” he says. “You gotta be in the moment, that’s what gives you the gift.”

Dothard also says Johnson had a mean jumper on the basketball court.

“As a point guard, he knows how to pass the ball,” Dothard says. “But he would tell any of his partners, ‘Remember, last few seconds of the fourth quarter, I get the last shot!’”

Johnson, dipping a stick of celery into some ranch, laughs and agrees, “That’s why I get paid!”

Dothard reiterates, “Under all circumstances!”

Johnson laughs, “You pass that!”

Marquise Brown’s career would not be the same without Johnson.

That’s not to take away anything from Brown’s talents: he’s a great receiver, and the odds that he learned any of that from Johnson are slim to none (they’re none). However, Brown is more commonly referred to as “Hollywood” nowadays, because Johnson realized he was from Hollywood, Florida, during a 2017 game against Kansas State.

The moment Hollywood Brown became Hollywood Brown is one that Klatt still seems amazed by. It came on a 77-yard touchdown pass from Baker Mayfield to extend Oklahoma’s lead to 55-45 against Oklahoma State.

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”From our seat you can see the defense open up from where we’re at in the booth,” he says. “And right when he spun, and you could see it open up, Gus’ tempo changed, everything changed. It was like watching Steph Curry, and you know he’s open in the corner, you can see the three-pointer being made before he even has the ball in his hands. That’s the way it feels in the booth.”

Because of Johnson’s call, Brown is more memorable, no matter how the rest of his career shakes out.

The big calls are what Johnson is known for, but he’s also an ace in knowing when to shut up. Johnson’s silence during the final moments of Notre Dame-Stanford in 2015 is something that Klatt and lead game producer Chuck McDonald both agree that Johnson is under-appreciated for.

Johnson didn’t go out of character — he still went bonkers in the final minutes of that game. But when Stanford knocked through the game-winning field goal, Johnson switched gears. It’s a moment Klatt says he’ll always keep with him as one of the most important lessons he’s learned in his years as an analyst.

”He sat there,” Klatt says, “and he looked at me and he held his hand up and shook his head like, ‘Don’t say a word.’ And he sat there for what felt like an eternity, because it’s television.”

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McDonald says, “People weren’t expecting that, and it was funny reading Twitter. There were a lot of people like, ‘What the heck was that? Where was the crazy call?’ He and I talked about it, and he told me, ‘What was I going to say that was better than that?’”

Johnson’s ability to read the moment and react accordingly is what has made him a legend. His style is unmatched when it comes to the NCAA tournament. He was made for it, and it helped make him.

Fortunately for Johnson, a lot of his famous calls were made as YouTube was starting to boom. And he’ll tell you, “So many great games,” he says. “Just great games,” and then he starts to get rhythmic, as if somebody had just put a microphone in front of his face. “Florida-Gonzaga, Princeton-UCLA, Vermont-Syracuse, Ohio State-Xavier, Xavier-Kansas State, just to name a few.” He pauses, and accurately adds, “And there are more.”

Steve Scheer, like Dothard, has worked with Johnson at CBS as a basketball producer, and now at Fox in the same capacity. He describes Johnson as a brother, having worked with him since Johnson’s first game at CBS. His favorite moment in working with Johnson came in 1999, when Gonzaga upset Florida in the NCAA tournament. “It was the call that made America wake up to Gus Johnson,” he tells me over the phone.

Johnson’s call was simply, “The slipper still fits!”

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”People to this day, including some people who shall remain nameless at CBS,” Scheer says, “will call and say, ‘Boy, we miss Gus on the NCAA tournament.’”

And yet Johnson isn’t worried about calling another NCAA tournament game.

“That’s my legacy,” he says, “and I don’t want to mess with it. It was the greatest time of my career.” He takes a long pause, “I earned my bones during that period. It was magic.”

A lot of that magic was made with Bill Raftery, where Johnson describes the duo as “Ebony and Ivory.”

“He’s like a second father to me. Straight up. I love him,” Johnson says. “When I’m with him, it feels like I’m with my dad. I’m protected. He’s not going to let anything happen to me.”

Raftery jokes to me on the phone, “I’m upset that he’s calling me a father,” he says, “Because I’ve got more juice than he does!”

One time, Johnson had lost his wallet, and he asked Raftery to borrow some money. Raftery reached into his pocket and pulled out $500 in cash, and handed it over like it was nothing. “He had it on him,” Johnson says laughing, “Just like an old man!”

“I cherish those moments,” he says about calling the NCAA tournament, “But that’s the past.”

”I’m not the pregame show, and I’m not the postgame show. I’m not the past, and I’m not the future. I’m part of the present. I’m present, I’m in the moment, and that’s where I want to keep my life.”

He says a line from the movie Bull Durham sticks out to him with regards to his outlook on life. It’s when Crash Davis hits his home run in Asheville, immediately retires, and goes back to Annie Savoy’s house in Durham.

Johnson says, “I just want to be.”

This is all routine for Johnson now. After all, he’s been in the game for almost 30 years. But like any person with a craft, it took a while to find out who he was as a broadcaster. For most of us, Gus Johnson was somebody who just kind of appeared in our homes and on our televisions while taking in March Madness. His energy made you care about a game or a team that you had no rooting interest in.

For Johnson, the people he tried to mimic were Bob Costas, Dan Patrick, Brad Nessler, Al Michaels, and other greats. Reflecting on that time, he says, “A lot goes into that, you know? African-American, all-white industry, predominantly, especially at my position as a play-by-play guy. Even to this day, very few of us, unfortunately.”

“I needed to sound whiter.”

While at CBS, he once had an agent tell him that he “sounded too black.” Johnson says, “I called the agent back, and I said to the agent, ‘Well, I don’t understand, I am black. How can I sound too black? What does that mean?’”

But Johnson will tell you he’s always been in command of how he handles the language. He took acting lessons under Douglas Turner Ward, founder of the Negro Ensemble Company, along with other voice and diction classes over the years.

“It’s why I understand the language and how to use the language — my diphthongs, and my t-h’s, all those kind of things,” he says. “Incorporating that into my natural vernacular, and then just being myself. When I finally started to implement that, everything changed. I was able to relax and not play a character — a sportscaster character — but play the sportscaster character as myself.”

About 15 years ago, Johnson had a moment with his ex-girlfriend, Joy Hooper. She graduated with a degree in fine arts from Howard, and earned a master’s degree in fine arts from Penn State, where she ended up teaching. He describes her as a masterful actress and teacher. He enjoyed how she was able to pick out small things about him, which she was good at, because many actors study human behavior to improve at their craft.

Because she was able to do those things, and do them well, she had an honest discussion with him that he described as the day that he became Gus Johnson, and nobody else.

”You’re doing a good job,” she told him.

“But when you let that little black boy from Detroit out of his cage … Then you’ll be a superstar.”

McDonald says into Johnson’s earpiece, “The last time Army beat a top-10 team was Penn State in 1963.”

It’s a 14-14 game, Michigan’s ball, fourth-and-two, with just over two and a half minutes left in the fourth quarter. Michigan is near midfield, and fails to convert for the first down.

As officials are measuring the spot, Johnson repeats what McDonald just funneled into his ear, setting up what could become another signature moment. Army has one time out, and plenty of time to work with against the team that Johnson grew up admiring.

There are no questions when it comes to Johnson’s objectivity. He’s a professional, and he’s proved as much over the years. But there’s no doubt that being in this moment means a little bit more, because it is Michigan.

After his Little League baseball games, his mom would serve up soup and sandwiches while he and his dad watched Bo Schembechler and the Wolverines. “Daddy and I would watch,” he says, “And Mama would always root for the other team for some reason. She just knew how to get on our nerves, and we’d be mad at her, like, ‘Why are you talking good stuff about them!’”

Johnson met Schembechler once at an airport. Schembechler was carrying his own bags, a fact Johnson seemed impressed by. He walked up to the legendary coach and introduced himself.

Schembechler told Johnson he was proud of him, before correcting himself and saying “we” are proud. “That was the only time I met him,” Johnson says, unsuccessfully fighting back tears. “That’s all I needed.”

Army owned a 5-4 record against the Wolverines all-time going into the game. Michigan quarterback Shea Patterson’s turnover woes carried over from the previous week, and there’s an antsy feeling in the Big House. This is supposed to be as good of a year as ever to finally break through, beat Ohio State, and win the Big Ten.

Michigan isn’t looking like it.

Johnson hasn’t sat down since early in the fourth quarter, but remains level. After the failed Michigan fourth down attempt, Army can’t do better than a 50-yard attempt for kicker Cole Talley, whose first-ever field goal attempt as a college athlete is this one.

“Cole Talley. From 50 yards away. Freshman,” Johnson says as the teams line up. The ball is snapped, the kick had distance, “And he pushed it wide,” Johnson says on the call. “We are heading for overtime in Ann Arbor.”

He takes a seat, quite literally on the edge of his stool. After the teams exchange touchdowns in the first overtime, Michigan gets a field goal to make it a 24-21 game. Army once again has a chance to win the game they probably should have had in regulation.

The Black Knights are faced with a third-and-11 on the ensuing possession, and the Michigan defense gets to Army quarterback Kelvin Hopkins Jr., and the ball pops loose. Johnson captures the moment perfectly.

“Sacked! Loose! Michigan has the football!” Johnson exclaims.

He waits for the referee’s official signal before delivering, “And the Wolverines survive! Kwity Paye! Knocked it loose! And grabbed it!” His hands, in the air as the play was developing, are now resting on his head, and he goes silent.

“The Victors” is booming through the Big House while the Wolverines sprint to the opposite end of the stadium and jump into the stands to celebrate with fans.

The man whose voice made him a legend, once again, lets the moment speak for itself.

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babazima · 7 years

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MAINVERSE;; RETURN TO #14 MARCH 21st, 2015

Michael Holmes

Suddenly, an unknown man at the door. Well, not exactly unknown - Hettie had been seeing him about for months on end now. At a careful distance, just far enough away to keep himself safe.

Safe from the man who'd kept him a secret. Kept him away from the woman he loved.

He looks far too comfortable considering it all - considering that, for all intents and purposes from Hettie's point of view - he's an unknown who's just broken into her house and is now leaning on her bathroom doorframe.

"Is that really wise?"

S H I T.

Hazel eyes flew open, and half a second later the glass vial hit the floor and shattered.

He wasn't supposed to be in here.

Not in this room.

Not in this house.

Not even in this street.

And yet, here he was.

Here he was, and her gun was in another room.

So were her children.

s h i t.

She contemplated, thought about remaining seated and covered in water and foam - but eventually decided against it. The woman rose, standing tall - as tall as possible for somebody her height. And yet, there was an aura of pride radiating from her. Something majestic.

"/how/ did you get in here?!"

That hadn't be quite what he'd expected her to do.

Truth be told, he hadn't any idea what he /had/ expected her to do. Once upon a time he'd have been able to predict nearly her every move, but those times had passed. Now he was taken by surprise by her sudden rising, as a phoenix from ashes.

He tried to not let his blood boil at the sight of her scars. There was nothing that could be done now - the culprit was dead and gone. The anger was not required - he needed, instead, to be calm.

Especially if he was going to explain everything without worrying Hettie more than necessary.

Not moving from his spot he reached into the pocket of the suit jacket hanging over his arm, fishing out the single silver key and tossing it onto the side of the sink. It was his last one - retained from the last day he'd spent in this house. If Hettie heard him out and still decided she never wanted him back, it was her key to keep on a permanent basis.

"Through the front door. Much like anybody else."

Had she left her keys unattended?

Were they Nathaniel's? How did he obtain them, and when did he manage to make a copy? And how in God's name -

"You shouldn't be in here. You shouldn't even mave made it past the gates. There's police in front of the gates, in front of the door. You /shouldn't be in here./"

No matter how hard she tried not to - she felt herself getting nervous.

The fear slowly seeping into her body sent chills down her pine - or was it maybe just the cold air on her naked skin? Maybe it was both.

"You've been following me. What do you want?"

Michael Holmes

She was absolutely right - he shouldn't have been there. He shouldn't have been able to get through the gates, or the police. He shouldn't, really, have even tried.

But he was here.

He could see her fear, and it was a concern; understandable, but not what he had hoped. Obviously, there was nothing he could do in response - any movement towards her would be considered threatening, but leaving would defeat the point.

Instead, he leant on the door frame a little more, missing the reassurance of his umbrella handle against his palm as he quietly replied, "To explain myself."

Carlotta Holmes

It was with a soft creaking noise that the girl gave her presence away - trying to to be sneaky was hard to accomplish when one was deaf.

A little shift to the right so she sound gat a better view as she peeked past the door - and the wooden floor was happy to announce her presence.

Heads turned - and when the little girl - who was, in fact, completely ignoring the fact that her mother was in the nude; Carlotta herself happened to be quite the fan of nudist culture just as any little girl was - met gazes with the man, her blue eyes widened, and it was with a delighted squeal that she stormed towards him, arms wide open.

Hettie Spieler

"CARLOTTA, NO!"

An intuitive reaction - and a useless one.

The girl couldn't hear her, though one thing was for certain; had she been able to, Lotta would have stopped dead in her tracks, paralyzed by the sheer terror and fear in her mother's voice.

Instead, the girl kept bouncing towards the stranger, and once Hettie managed to shake off her own terror she was on the move, stumbling out of the bath as fast as she was able to, the only thing on her mind being her daughter.

Save her.

Sa-

Hazel eyes widened as she felt herself slipping, wet feet losing grip on the tiles of the bathroom floor, and half a second later and accompanied by a soft scream, Hettie hit the ground full force - and the back of her head hit the tub.

Hello Darkness, my old friend.

Michael Holmes

"Shit."

One of the few reasons Mycroft was glad that Lotta couldn't hear - she couldn't pick up on the swearing. And the first thing he did was scoop the young girl into his arms, resting her as best he could against his non-existent hip as he finally moved closer to Hettie.

Not quite out cold - quite possibly, the worst thing to happen. He wanted to help her, wanted to get her carefully to bed and looked after by a doctor and...safe. But moving closer, and the very fact that he was indeed holding Lotta, would only panic her more. He needed to figure out a compromise.

Though it wrenched his heart to let her go after having held her so briefly, Mycroft carefully set Lotta down next to her mother, quickly signing 'Stay here with your Mama. I have to make a phone call. I'll come back, I promise.'

Mycroft's lists of contacts had been growing shorter by the second, and there were few he'd trust these days, and even fewer he'd trust with Hettie. He just hoped his trust hadn't been misplaced as he dialed the number into his mobile.

Hettie Spieler

Blurry:

Everything was so, so blurry - as if she was trying to find her way through a misty night, and there was no voice to guide her.

With a loud groan she attempted to sit up - and pain struck like a sledge hammer, shooting up her spine, through her neck and piercing right into her brain. And yet, she tried to bling it away as she managed to sit up - and eventually, under some swaying, stand. With a few shaky steps she was over at the tub - where did the red stains come from? - and picked up her bathrobe, quickly wrapping it around her daughter before staggering over to the window and opening it. Her hands were shaking, and yet the words they signed were clear; 'Run to uncle Dave. Tell him Mummy needs help. STAY there.'

A quick kiss to the young girl's forehead - and with all her remaining strength and balance - don't you drop her, Hettie, don't you drop her - lifted the little girl up and though the window, carefully lowering her onto the grass. There was no time to look after her, no time too watch her scatter off. The woman closed the window, staggered over to the door - bathrobe! - before slumping against the frame.

He wasn't gone.

She could hear his voice, a soft mumble - and once again blinked the dizziness away.

There was no way to tell where the voice was coming from, but eventually, she would probably find out. While the baby monitor had remained silent throughout the whole thing, Hettie was no longer sure it was a good sign.

She had to get upstairs.

Had to get the little girl.

And had to get the fuck out of this house.

Michael Holmes

It could, perhaps, have been considered a little bit extreme, calling in one of the most prominent experimental surgeons in Europe to deal with a concussion from slipping in the bathroom, but Mycroft didn't have a lot of options. He traditional first port of contact would have been Dave, and truthfully, the longer he could keep David away from all of this, the better.

Knowing there'd be some wait, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned around to head back to the bathroom. He'd taken some risk leaving her alone in the first place, relying on Lotta to make sure she didn't fade into unconsciousness in his absence.

He'd obviously greatly miscalculated the situation.

Not only had Hettie moved, Lotta was missing - and Mycroft had to do his best not to respond with instant panic. Instead he spent a second taking in the whole picture and - Dave. She'd been sent off to get Dave.

Right - he didn't have much time. Moving quickly, but still cautious not to cause Hettie more worry than he already was, he knelt down in front of her, eyes meeting hers.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Henrietta, nor the children - I never would. Dave is lying to you. I'm not the dangerous one."

Hettie Spieler

Oh, hell.

Why did her feet have to give way under her body?

Why did her legs refuse to work, and why in Gods name was unconsciousness trying every so desperately to pull her under, as she tied ever so desperately to stay awake?

Had she had the time to think about it, there would have been a chance that Hettie would find the irony in this very situation; had she not longed for this very state of dullness, this very state of bliss, head wrapped in morphine-induced clouds?

A pair of shoes, coming to a halt just in front of her, and it was the moment that she managed to lift her swirling head that he crouched down in front of her – and it was in the warm light of the hallway that their gazes locked properly for the first time.

One eye was a bright, slightly grey-ish blue; and yet it wasn’t cold. It held a certain melancholy, a sadness, a comforting, familiar warmth behind its icy façade.

The other one, though….

The other was a warm brown, embedded in what seemed to be a soft rim of red, causing the iris to almost radiate like the setting sun.

It was…unsettling.

And yet, it was pretty low on her list of priorities when it came to things to worry about at this point. When he leaned in, her breath came to a halt for a short moment.

Maybe it was the head trauma – she wasn’t sure if she was bleeding, but the sticky warmth she could feel running down the back of her neck suggested so – but his scent was so …/familiar/.

/Don’t trust him./

“What….do you want from us?”

Michael Holmes

It was difficult being this close to her and restraining himself. The urge to reach out, give a comforting stroke of her cheek or even wrap his arms around her damaged form, was almost overwhelming.

Especially now he'd finally seen her.

He'd known, in theory, about the damage Jim had done. His informants had kept him up to date with what was going on and what she'd had to endure. But this....this was different. This was worse than he'd ever allowed himself to believe. He was trying not to stare - he didn't need to worry her more so by giving her the impression that he was some pervert who liked to break into women's bathrooms - but it was difficult to ignore all the marks across her skin.

He very nearly reached a gentle hand out to run his thumb across one of the longer scars, but he pulled his hand back just in time, looking up at her with eyes that were filled with pain.

Or rather, eye.

Slowly, with some difficulty, he got back to the point in hand. His voice didn't come easily, but eventually he managed, "I don't want anything from you. I want to explain myself."

Hettie Spieler

“Alright then.”

This was a chance.

“Explain yourself.”

A chance to get out of this alive, a chance to keep the girls safe – Lottie was out the window, and as long as Hettie managed to stay awake and keep up a conversation with the intruder, so would Jemma be. As long as he was busy with Hettie, the little girl would sleep through the whole thing.

But she had to stay awake for this.

She had to.

“I’ve seen you before.”

Obviously, but stating the obvious was just fine – the more words, the better. Words bought her the only thing that she needed – time. Time for Lottie to alert David, time for David to get his sorry ass over to her house and do something about this mess she had gotten herself into when she had left the gun in the nightstand.

“You’ve been following us. Back in Ireland. But I think back then, you tried not to be seen….”

Did he? Didn’t he? She couldn’t tell. The time with Jim had made her paranoid, had made her fear for the life of everybody that as much as dared to lay eyes upon her, that as much as dared to greet her on the street. She had learned to keep her mouth shut, to keep her gaze attached to the ground. Never make eye contact.

“When we came here, so did you. You were –“ she stopped, tongue running over dry lips as she took a deep breath and focused, “You were at the parking lot. At the grocery store, I remember that. And Dave-“ another pause, this time caused by memories taking up what was left of her current capacity to think. Dave had used the exact same words. /Don’t trust him. He’s dangerous. He’s lying. Stay away./

“David said not to trust you. And, hell-“ a groan- “He wouldn’t lie to me. You? You’re a stranger who’ been stalking me and my family . You broke into my house. /Why/ would I trust you? You, of all people?”

Michael Holmes

It was ridiculous to think she would. That, indeed, she should at all. By all rights, he was exactly what she had described; a stranger who'd followed her through two different countries and had now broken into her house. Trusting someone who has given you no reason to was foolish, and Hettie was no fool.

Mycroft sighed, so deep you could hear the trauma of the last few years, and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to work out just how best to start.

He decided to be straightforward.

"David lied. I was in an explosion, that is true enough, but I did not die. Not...exactly. I have the Russians to thank for both. They-"

And that is as far as he got before he was distracted by the smallest of sounds - a key turning in the front door lock. Immediately, he stood, pressing himself back against the doorframe in a motion that was half tactical positioning and half pure paranoid panic.

It had to be Dave. The Doctor would never have been here so fast and had no key of his own, and so, logically, the only conclusion was that he was out of time.

Panic began to be the driving force, and he turned his head to look down at Hettie, his Henrietta, and hissed, "I can't be here. Not with him."

Hettie Spieler

Hettie couldn't believe what she was hearing.

There was no way this man could possibly know about Mycroft.

No way he could know about ...really, any of this.

The only people that knew were her, Nathaniel, David and......Jim.

Was this something Jim had his hands on? Was this some sort of "In case I die, make sure to fuck up her life for good" thing he had planned in case he'd meet a rather early death, and maybe even one by her very hands?

Her head hurt, her brain felt dizzy, and nothing made sense anymore.

/But his cologne..../

Finding out about one's cologne was an easy task. Even Mycroft Holmes had to buy it somewhere, and God only knew for how long this man had been following them...

/The cufflinks./

A gift from Dave, who had made sure they were brought back from Russia.

/The umbrella/.

To be bought at Huntsman.

/But his eye.../

This icy blue eye with an all-too-familiar melancholy laying behind it...quite possibly just her dizzy, drowsy mind playing tricks on her. Showing her what she wanted to see. Showing her what she was aching to see.

Henrietta Holmes, neé Spieler, didn't hear they key turning.

Sounds were muffled, and it took all that was left of her willpower to not fall asleep on the spot. It took a few seconds, but eventually, his words started to make sense. /I can't be here with him./

Of course he couldn't be in here with Dave.

Dave would take a quick look at the man and shoot him on the spot. Dave would be able to tell that this man was, under no circumstances, Mycroft Holmes. Ever so slowly Hettie crawled backwards until she was resting against the couch - the man in the doorway was way too distracted by the sound of the front door opening to notice what was going on in the darkness - and reached underneath it, trembling hands searching for the semi-automatic pistol safely stored away. It was with a wave of relief washing through her body that she found it, and , trembling fingers wrapping around the handle, pulled it out.

She could barely see.

There was the darkness, there was the head wound and the almost certain concussion that caused her vision to be one blurry mess, and her hands were shaking - but then again, he was on the other end of the room, it was dark, and he was clearly otherwise involved when it came to who he was paying attention to.

If she /was/ to shoot, she would miss, and knowing her luck, take out the Prime Minister.

But he didn't need to know that.

It was with a soft 'click', that the safety came undone.

"Stay."

Michael Holmes

She'd been absolutely right, he had been too distracted to notice. It wasn't until he heard the click that he turned his attention from the door to see what had happened.

Even in the darkness, his vision was perfectly clear, his eye compensating for the lack of light.

He also took a moment to weigh up his chances. Truth be told, the odds were good; she wasn't in the best of ways and was trying to shoot at him in the darkness. The possibility of him actually being shot was low.

However, the likelihood that she could force him to confront Dave was considerably higher, and that was not an event he was looking forward to. He was more likely to survive a shooting than a meeting with the PM.

With this in mind, he took a risk and stepped backwards away from the opening door and closer to Hettie, looking at her with desperation.

It wouldn't help. He was trapped, between the man he feared most and the woman he loved most, who by all rights was threatening to shoot him.

And as Dave worriedly called out, "Hettie!?" Mouse very nearly headed back down the corridor and out of the nearest window.

Henrietta Spieler

It was the Prime minister's voice, piercing through the darkness off the corridor, that caused the slip.

The woman was tense.

Focusing entirely on the man in front of her gun, the man that kept moving closer, her mind was in trance- a trance it was ever so suddenly ripped out off when he called out her name, causing the woman to startle - and sweaty fingers to accidentally pull the trigger.

The next thing to pierce the silence was the sound of the gun going off, followed by a high pitched scream coming from Hettie herself as the bullet actually hit the intruders shoulder.

"David!"

Michael Holmes

Well.

Mycroft had been through a lot in his life, highs and lows.

This was definitely a low.

With a swear that was still soft, though definitely louder than he had wanted to be in the moment, his hand flew to his shoulder and pressed firmly against the new hole through his suit and his skin.

The distraction was enough for David to step in, slowly making his way around toward Hettie, reaching out to take her hand in an attempt to remove it from the gun.

Hettie Spieler

She hadn't meant to shoot him, and that was the worst part about the whole thing.

Trigger finger unstable, she had slipped, an involuntary action that now caused a wave of ....guilt? - to wash through her body. Henrietta was by no means a violent person, yet she had come to value her personal safety- and that of her children - greatly, enough to have determined that, should it come to it, potential threats to their loves were to be eliminated.

Yet this very threat....

He had eventuallu looked even more frightened than she felt.

And she had shot him.

"....I didn't mean to...."

Trembling fingers let go of her hand, only to wrap around David's in an attempt to pull herself up and into a halfway standing position as the gun eventually hit the ground.

"He had a key, and he just - he says he's Mycroft. That he's not dead. He said not to trust you-" her grip tightened, "Just as it said in the letters." /The ones in HIS handwriting/, she thought. But from the look on the PM's face, she didn't have to add that. David knew exactly, /which/ letters she was talking about.

"I want to know what's going on! I have a /right/ to know what's going on!"

Michael Holmes

She absolutely had every right to know what was going on; the time for secrets had passed.

That didn't mean David was going to give up so easily. Keeping them apart was the right thing to do - it was best for her safety and for Mycroft's, and was the only chance of keeping Hettie sane and healthy. She'd been doing so much better lately, and having him back would only revert the progress.

Also, telling the truth would reveal just how much David had kept from her. That could only cause problems.

"It's...everything will be fine. I'll take him, I'll get him patched up and send then I'll send him on his way. We'll get the locks changed."

Mouse, still clutching at his arm, could only look at Hettie wide-eyed, shaking his head as inconspicuously as he could. He had to have more time with her, without Dave there, and if Dave took him now he'd know he'd never get chance to see her again.

Hettie Spieler

"You didn't answer my question...."

Her thoughts were racing.

No, he hadn't answered her question. In fact, David had very much avoided to say anything on behalf on the things she had spat at him. He hadn't even managed to look her in the eye, and Henrietta know /exactly/ what that meant. David was a capable liar, but not when it came to doing so while looking people into the eye. Especially not when it came to doing so while looking her in the eyes.

She could read him like an open book.

"In fact...."

Her gaze wandered to the other man leaning against the doorframe, the man whose face held an expression of utter desperation - a feeling she knew too well.

"In fact, you avoided responding to anything I just said." letting go of David's arm, Hettie took a step back, even though it was more of a stumbling. "You couldn't even look me in the eye. You..." she stopped, blinking. Circulatory collaps straight ahead. Reaching for the back of her head, Hettie pulled her hand back rather soon when fingertips met something warm and sticky.

She couldn't black out now.

If she went out, she'd never get an explanation. David would do just what he announced, and that would be it. No explanations. Once again. Once again....

Hettie looked down at her fingers, and frowned.

"Mouse..."

Michael Holmes

Damn that Prime Minister.

Even before he'd actively started working against Mycroft, he'd always had a habit of cocking things up. This had been no exception.

Surprisingly, despite a few...errors, Mycroft had had everything under control. He'd started to explain everything to Hettie, a doctor was on his way - and should, in fact, be arriving any second - and they were steadily getting somewhere.

Now, largely because of David, everything had gone tits up. He'd been shot, was unable to leave or explain, and Hettie was close to passing out though blood loss.

It was instinct, rather than rational thought, that caused him to move to support her, momentarily forgetting the threat that David posed.

"I'm here."

It was at the exact same moment that David stepped closer as well, holding his hand out to Hettie in an offer to pull her back to him. His face was the picture of concern; brow furrowed, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening with every passing moment.

"He's not safe, Hettie...you can't stay near him."

Hettie Spieler

"But /JIM WAS SAFE?!/"

She hadn't meant to yell, had not meant to raise her voice - it showed her desperation, and /that/ made her vulnerable. It was what got one into trouble.

It was what got one into trouble....or worse.

And once again in her life, history repeated itself.

Once again, Hettie found herself between two men.

There was David.

Who had helped her out, had been there for her whenever she asked for it.

Had taken care of her. Had taken care of the kids.

Had provided comfort and kind words.

David, who had /cared/.

Who had never judged.,

And then, there was....well.

The man that claimed to be her dead husband.

Who had stalked her, had broken into her home...well, who had had a key. Who Lottie had ran to, squealing happily. Who was wearing the same aftershave Mycroft had, who was trying ever so desperate to have David not drag him away. The man that, despite his looks, seemed ever so familiar...

And David.

Who had told her to stay away from him.

Who had just tossed away the letters she had shown him.

Who was trying ever so desperately to get the other man away from her.

David, who couldn't look her into the eye at this point.

David, who she could tell....../had lied./

She slumped back against the chair.

"So it's true? Look me in the eye, David, and tell me he's lying."

Michael Holmes

And he did look her in the eye. Directly, with no ounce of fear, dead in the eye as he calmly said, "He is a very dangerous person to be around."

And it wasn't a lie. There was no denying that Mycroft Holmes was a danger to be around. No matter his mental state, or even emotional state, the very fact that a vast number of people still wanted him dead meant that nobody surrounding him was safe.

"I didn't know how bad Moriarty was until it was too late," his eyes were now shifting from one place to another, "but I can at least keep you safe this time, if you'll just /listen/."

Hettie Spieler

That was all she had needed to hear.

He had admitted it.

And what was even worse;

He had seen her suffer.

Had known that she had never gotten over the death of her husband.

Had known that she mourned him, still did, that all she had wanted had been /him/.

David has seen the hope in her when she brought over the letters, .

And all this time, he had known.

Had known that he was /alive/.

Hettie took a step back from the PM - and closer to Mycroft.

"I've never been good at listening, David....always been stubborn. You should know that. I'm good at making bad decisions. I-"

No, no. She wasn't the one who had to explain herself. She wasn't the one who was in the wrong. It was /him/.

"You /lied/ to me! I trusted you, and you /LIED TO ME/. YOU LIED TO ME! YOU-" the rest of the sentence was swallowed the sound of the woman breaking down into tears.

Enough was enough.

Michael Holmes

He didn't even get a chance to explain, to tell her that he had her best interests at heart at that him returning would only lead them both down a path of destruction - by their own hands or by others - when Mycroft had spoken.

"Leave."

And Dave had felt insulted. After everything, he had the arrogance to feel insulted.

"I am /not/ leaving you alone with her! How da-"

He didn't get any further, cut off by a voice that was both icy cold and pleading.

"Don't you think you've done enough damage?"

And while a large part of him knew he was in right, that he'd done the right thing by Hettie, whether she knew that or appreciated it or not, he couldn't fight any longer. He could only leave and hope that some day she would realise he was right. He only hoped it wouldn't take any more deaths to figure it out.

Without another word, he headed out of the room, out of the front door, and, at least for now, out of their lives.

Hettie Spieler

When the door closed behind David, Hettie let out a sigh of relief – and closed her eyes.

Only to open them again a mere second later.

It wasn’t time to go to sleep yet.

David was gone.

Had admitted that the strangers claims were nothing but the truth.

Had admitted that the man who had been following them through two different countries was, in fact, her husband. Even though he looked nothing like him – a topic that had to be discussed another day. She didn’t mind – it would take her a while to get used to the new features, yes, but that was about it. Behind those glasses, behind this set of - admittedly slightly disturbing – eyes lay still the soul of the man she had fallen for, the man she had married, the man she had vowed to love until death did them part.

And, oh.

In the end…..

Death had done a rather good job at parting them.

But only up to this point.

He had returned to her, in one form or another, and Henrietta for once felt….

Relief.

Not the alcohol or morphine induced kind of relief.

An actual relief, something that felt like…..home.

A trembling hand reached out, carefully moving the blood drenched fabric of his jacket. Well, it could have ended a lot worse.

A whole lot worse.

“We have to call an ambulance………”

That, and David. While it was close to a miracle that Jemma was still asleep, she couldn’t leave the toddler on her own during a trip to an overcrowded ER. Hettie figured the sleepover for Lotta was already settled. “I also think my head needs stitches. I gotta call Sam and ask her to take Jemma….”

For a moment she fell silent, hand still clinging to the lapels of his jacket – until she looked up, and for the first time, her gaze actually locked with his. Locked with the man behind those glasses, the man behind those eyes.

“Are you real?”

There was always a chance she had just passed out in the tub, passed out from the morphine, with her head having hit the edge and Hettie having …. Well.

“Is this real?”

Michael Holmes

"It's real. I'm...real. Real enough, for now."

He reached down, taking her shaking hand in his as gently as he could, moving it away from his bloodied jacket.

"Everything will be fine. There is a doctor on his way to look after your head. Please don't worry about me."

And here he smiled a little, a small smirk of humour that wasn't entirely suited to the situation.

"Tis but a scratch."

He wasn't about to explain that it really was alright - now wasn't the time to panic her with everything his new body could do, not with concussion and everything else she'd had to suffer through today.

"You should lie down. Or at least sit."

Henrietta Spieler

She couldn't.

Couldn't comprehend.

Couldn't...

/It's real. I'm...real. Real enough, for now./

He had come home.

After everything, after Jim, after all the years of pain, abuse, neglect, despair - he had come home.

There was a lot they didn’t tell you about death, she had discovered, and one of the biggies was how long it took the ones you loved most to die in your heart.

He had never died.

Not in her heart.

He had returned, and he -

Or hadn't.

Had he?

/hush, Hettie, hush/

Fingers tracing the fabric of his jacket.

Wool.

Wet.

/Right, the blood...sit down, Hettie, sit down/

She could't lie down.

Couldn't sit.

All she managed was a soft sigh - exhaled.

Let go.

Lights out.

Bool.

The end.

Michael Holmes

That was unfortunate.

With a small sigh not dissimilar to hers, he caught her as best he could, shifting her around until he was cradling her against him.

It was short work carrying her to bed and laying her gently down on the covers, but it was only when he sat down next to her to wait for his doctor that he finally took in his surroundings.

And exhaled slowly.

Everything was...it was as if he'd never left. Nothing in the room had changed from the days they spent together. It was a room in stasis, endlessly left how it had been when things were perfect.

His reverie was broken by the doorbell going, and he pushed himself up to answer. They spoke in hushed, if familiar, tones - Mycroft all too aware of the sleeping Jemma.

It was with some reluctance that Mycroft eventually invited the stranger into the bedroom, with some trepidation at the invasion of privacy that he hadn't previously thought would be a concern. Still, for Hettie's sake, it had to be done.

"What happened, Mycroft?"

"She slipped in the bathroom. Concussion, head injury, stitches are probably needed."

The doctor knelt down next to the bed to take a look, not even glancing up at Mycroft to ask.

"And to you?"

"Hmm? Oh...gunshot wound. A graze. It will heal without any help. Just make sure she's okay."

And so he set to work, Mycroft pacing up and down as the gentleman got to work, humming gently to himself.

Henrietta Spieler

It was the sunlight in combination with a slight headache that woke her.

That and....

....c o f f e e .

The smell of fresh coffee, creeping through the house, filling the rooms with it's seductive scent.

/Get up, Hettie. Breakfast is ready./

The woman sat up with a groan, reaching for her head - only to pull back when fingertips came in contact with the soft gauze wrapped around her head.

"Fuckin 'ell...."

...and the memories came back.

At least partially.

She had slipped, hadn't she? Had slipped, and had began to hallucinate. Chances were, that Lottie had alerted David, who had - in turn - alerted a doctor; and was now making breakfast. And for once, she actually felt hungry. That was a change.

Another change was the fact that she was wearing pyjamas - her very own. At least David was trying.

A quick peek into the girl's bedroom only showed what she had already thought - empty. David was playing babysitter again. As much as Hettie felt jealous - probably a thing that had to do with motherly instincts - it was always a blessing to have somebody to take the weight off her shoulders. Even when said somebody was David Cameron.

"I smell cof-"

Hettie stopped mid-sentence.

The man in the kitchen, holding the squealing girl on his lap, was not David.

"It was real."

Michael Holmes

The doctor had done his job and left, with the task of sorting out the hotel bill and forwarding all of Mycroft's scant belongings on to him.

Mouse had spent a majority of the night sat by her bedside, torn between taking her hand and not overstepping any boundaries, with the first choice inevitably winning.

It had been just past midnight when Jemma had begun to cry. And Mycroft had, shamefully reluctant, left Hettie's side to go and comfort the young girl.

He'd spent much of the morning continuing to do so, relearning parenting at a rapid rate, and as dawn had approached he'd stopped to make coffee.

He'd been peering, half-intrigued, half-unnerved, at the baby in his lap when Hettie had stepped into the kitchen. He couldn't help but smile when he saw her, despite the circumstances.

"It was real. I'm real. Your head injury, sadly, is also real."

Henrietta Spieler

"Oh....my...."

It was with a smile that she took the toddler from him, placing a kiss to the girl's forehead. "And a good morning to you, little one!"

The girl was placed on the floor, and immediately scurried off. Jemma had recently discovered how fast one could crawl, and was now spending her days trying to break her own record. So far, so good. Hettie would start worrying again when the little one was learning to walk or climb things.

The woman sat down, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"I thought I made all of this up. I mean, head injuries can be nasty. But then again, David has always been a terrible liar, and gets even worse when he is frightened. And nobody frightens him as much as you do."

Something else that had not changed.

Hettie took a sip of her coffee, smiling, before - shit.

That was something that would not be easy to explain.

"I....I thought you were dead. I - no, let me start again." God, how she wished the coffee had Rum. How she wished the coffee WAS Rum.

"The little girl.... her name's Jemma. She....I.....look, I thought you were dead, and I...." Oh, that was going hella fine. "I - Jim didn't....I couldn't...." her voice broke away, and Hettie stared into her coffee, silent.

"He's dead. I killed him."

Michael Holmes

"I know."

It was Mycroft's turn to come clean. To tell her, if she hadn't noticed, just how long he'd been keeping an eye on things.

He took another sip of his own coffee, giving him time to think his answer over.

"I....know what Jim was doing. Know who Jemma is. Know that you did the right thing. I..."

It was going to take a while to explain. Almost instinctively, without thought, he reached out for her hand.

"It took a while before David even told me that you'd reconnected with him, let alone moved. He kept trying his hardest to persuade me that you and him were doing alright, and while I...trusted him, I couldn't leave everything to chance. And so I sent Jim a warning."

He sighed deeply, taking another deep drink of coffee, speaking to the air in front of him rather than to her.

"And while I had hoped it would do something, David's " updates" were... unchanging. Life moved on, yes, but you were /always/ fine. Continuously doing well. It...raised alarm bells. Someone in the change of information was lying. And so I had to see for myself."

Another shaky breath out.

"Getting here wasn't easy. David was adamant that I shouldn't. I eventually got through on the promise to him that I would return as soon as I had seen you. As soon as I'd seen you, I knew where the deceit had formed, and I broke contact with him."

Now, he did turn, first to look down at Hettie's hands clutching her cup, and then up at her.

"I followed you. Knowing that Jim would know. Hoping it would help. Never knowing, truly, if you wanted him dead or only wanted him to stop. And then...then you told me in no uncertain terms that I should not have held back. And I am, truly sorry that I didn't step in earlier. That I didn't kill him for you. I...wasn't sure if it was what you would want."

Henrietta Spieler

"I wanted him to stop. To just....stop."

Her gaze came to rest on their hands, and it felt so...familiar. It felt right. Despite his changed appearance, it didn't feel like a stranger, a man overstepping boundaries and invading her privacy. It felt just the way it should.

"But he wouldn't have stopped. Ever. I tried to get him to, tried to calm him down - but he always wanted m o r e. Whenever I made a step towards him, made an attempt to soothe his nerves, he just yanked me further into his direction and cut me off from everybody else. Nothing I did could please him, and he just got...worse. But he'd never let us go. I knew that, and...I was afraid. Because in the end...if he couldn't have us, he'd have killed us. I just..."

She looked up, eyes dry. No tears. Not yet.

"I don't hate him, you know? I don't....think he even knew what he was doing. He was so...desperate. Desperate people do desperate things...."

Michael Holmes

"No one would blame you for what you did. I certainly don't."

His thumb brushed across the back of her hand. A familiar gesture; as familiar as if he'd never left.

While in truth, everything was different.

"And he's...gone now. At peace. And he can't hurt you any more."

Truthful, but clichéd. Mycroft internally winced. Emotions were something he had grown to live with, sentiment, however, he couldn't accept.

"He never was quite...right. I dread to think what he'd have done to Sherlock's mind if Sherlock wasn't so stubborn."

His brow furrowed as he turned to her, squeezing her hand gently.

"We'll make up for it. For what he did to you."

Henrietta Spieler

She let go of his hand, reached for her mug and took a sip of the lukewarm coffee.

"No."

/shush, Hettie, shuh./

No. No more lies.

/Hettie, no. Hush./

"We can't make up for it. For what he did. You've seen my body. You can't erase that . Not from my body, not from my mind. We can...."

/you can make up for it. let him try. please/

"Perhaps....we can try. If you can return from the dead...maybe we can. We-"

A squeal from the floor, and there was Jemma, pulling herself up on her mother's pyjama bottoms. Hettie reached down and picked the girl up, placing her in her lap. "Jim didn't allow contraception. When I found out.... I planned to step in front of a car. Have it hit me properly, so I'd lose the baby. But... I couldn't. Not because I was afraid of him, but... it's not her fault. Does that make sense?"

Michael Holmes

"It...makes sense."

It was undeniable, neither Hettie nor the child were at fault. And by all rights she was Hettie's child. Carried her DNA. It made absolute sense that Hettie would want to keep her alive, even before she was born.

Even if it was also half a pyschopathic, murderous, abusive, raping asshole's DNA.

But that wasn't Hettie's fault by any means.

Nor was it the child's.

"Life will be on your own terms, now. I promise you."

Henrietta Spieler

/Life will be on our own terms, now. I promise you./

Hettie fell silent, unable to look up.

She felt sick.

Reminded of all her errors, her mistakes, her wrong choices. And half of them - maybe most of them - were reflected by the girl sitting on her lap, happily brabbling on and attempting to climb the kitchen table.

She would always remind Hettie of everything that was wrong.

And now, she would also be a constant reminder to her husband.

And that...that was something Hettie worried about.

"How....could you possibly still want me? After...everything?"

Michael Holmes

"I would always want you. Will always. After anything."

It was said plainly, stated without any affect as the truth. Because that's what it was. It was why he'd come home, why he'd spent so long trying desperately to avoid David, and why, eventually, he'd broken in.

"I love you. Still."

Here his brow furrowed again, and he took some coffee as an excuse to not look her in the eye.

"If you still want me, of course."

#main #mainmyc #returnto14 #march2015

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