My eyes ahead
mind apart
(Naked Raven - Saviour)

***

She would love to be reckless sometimes. Shaking off the mask of the loyal member of the team, the perfect scientist, the ice-queen no one gets near to.

Reckless is a relative term. She now curses herself for wanting the exercise in the morning, as the walk she takes from the headquarters through the small dark park to her car, parked a block away, is already dangerous for a regular woman, but for her, especially after today, the danger is not just an abstract, general term, it’s palpable, hides behind every tree, every shrubbery.

Fear is a funny thing; it can handicap you, freeze you, hinder you, but it also makes you feel more alive than anything else. Angie March would thrive on that fear, but can't afford it, even the short way from the office to her car is an incredible risk. She feels the cage closing in on her even more than before and hates the feeling. But she does all this for a reason, doesn’t she? She can’t give into impulses and urges - not when she has a child who needs her.

The thought of Rose makes tonight's events - the doubts and hopes and fears - rush back with a vengeance.

Had she hoped that Mike had taken Robert? The erratic beating of her heart, stopping Vaughan from shooting Jacob, Kirsty or Mike - had that been professional interest, sympathy for Michael or had she wanted to see her husband resurrected?

She walks quicker, warding off a slight chill by pulling her coat closer around her. It shouldn’t be quite that cold in September, but that is London for you, never predictable.

Movement behind her, steps, whispered words and the adrenaline surge of fear is there, lightning quick. It touches her, surrounds her and she embraces it like a long lost lover, the cage opening for a fraction.

The steps behind her grow faster, and she speeds up as well. Whoever they are, they’re not leeches, this much is clear. Leeches don’t make noises, they don’t breathe loudly, aren’t lagging behind. If this was a leech meaning her harm, she’d be dead by now.

Her hand reaches for her gun, steady even while her hear beats a rapid staccato against her ribcage. The metal is cool against her palm. She knows she can handle a human attack, just doesn’t know how many she can fight at once. And what if they’re not after money? In her clinical world of high-tech she often forgets the very real dangers of the regular world. What if they’re after something else completely? What if the darkness doesn’t only give life to leeches, but to rapists?

Suddenly, the fear changes, doesn’t give her the power and speed she needs anymore but turns on her, the Judas kiss in Gethsemane. Her heart beats too loud, the blood rushes in her ears. Her legs feel leaden, her feet unsure in the dark. They’re getting closer behind her, now leering, their voices suggestive and disgusting.

Go on, go on, go on. Don’t stop walking. Don’t let them catch up.

I’m not leaving you alone, Rose. Don’t worry. Don’t --

A hand grabs her shoulder roughly and then, without a warning, she’s pushed and falling to the muddy ground - thinks of Rose desperately, of how she forbid her to stay out in the dark - and can’t draw her gun and can’t breathe and can’t scream --.

The men are out cold before she can do so much as turn around to her back. She can hear the sickening crunch of bones breaking, of bodies falling and then everything is silent again - as silent as possible in a metropolis like London.

There are hands helping her up, surprisingly gentle. “You should take better care where you’re walking, Dr. March.” The man pushes a shock of hair from his face and in the sliver of light from a near streetlamp, she recognises the man Mike had once called his best friend. “You might get hurt otherwise.”

She blinks; once, twice. Then the muzzle of her gun is on his chest; her hands not quite steady, but this is something she knows, something that fits into her view of the world, something that’s safe in its own danger.

Jack Beresford laughs, amusement crinkling the skin around his eyes. A skin that will never age from now on. “You and Mike are so tediously alike.”

“Why?”

He understands without her having to say more. But he chooses to ignore the question. “Thank you for not shooting me straight away.”

She pushes harder. “Why?”

Jack yanks the gun from her not yet quite steady hands, reverses their roles. “You should learn to click off the safety when you really want to hurt someone.”

Angela holds his gaze, a silent battle. She refuses to let him think she’s weak now. She’ll never again be weak in front of a leech. “Why?”

“You’re smart, Doctor. You’ll figure out.”

Shots pierce the night, sparking off a rubbish bin. “Ah, the cavalry.” He reaches down, running two fingers gently down her neck. Revulsion makes he shudder. “Think better of us when we next meet. And give my regards to Mike.”

She doesn’t know if any of the shots hit him, only that when Vaughan finally reaches her side, Jack’s gone.

***

“For Christ’s sake, tell me you’re bloody well joking.” The sound of an exasperated female voice stirs him from his stupor for a moment.

“Sorry, missus.” Strong hands grab him and drag him to several stone steps, then drop him there. The floor and the legs and a doorframe sway when he opens his eyes, so he closes them again, his head seeking rest on a wall.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” The female voice again. “And why did you bring him here?”

“Was the only address he could remember and speak half-way clearly. I’m not his nanny, like. He gives me a place, I drop him there.” A sniff, interrupting the thick Cockney. “That’d be a tenner.”

“What, he hasn’t even paid?”

“He’s drunk off his arse, darlin’.”

Michael makes to rise to interject that he’s sober enough but stops when the world moves too quickly again. The wall is suddenly his best friend.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, clutching at the wall before warm arms drag him up with some difficulty and the female voice is near his ear: “When you’re sober, I’ll take great delight in making you pay for this, Michael Colefield.”

***

TBC