Disclaimers: disclaimer: all things MK belong to somebody else. dragon is just having a little fun. non-profit.
time: yes
place: that, too.
spoilers: "Vengeance", series finale (if you haven't seen it and don't wanna know, don't read this)
category: resolution?
A Possible Redemption
© 2000, dragon
Chapter One
-- One Night Only --
Thump.
The supine body of the gray haired man rocked slightly as the woman tripped over him. She caught herself, found her balance and looked down at the man sleeping half leaning against the wall. His sprawl was untidy and ungainly. She made a face that meant trouble, then seemed to think better of it. She reached down and checked the paper bag with the dead give away folds at the top. Yep. One pint bottle of Jack Daniels, mostly empty. She set it back beside him.
"Carly!"
The man frowned in his sleep and shifted, pulling his long, denim clad legs out of the way. The woman was joined by a small, plump, self-important type who scowled at the drunk at her feet.
"Yes, Jeremy?"
"Why don't you get rid of that drunk?" he demanded, nodding at the man on the floor.
"Because, whatever his personal deficiencies are, he's an absolute wizard when it comes to making the electricity function correctly. I have never had to delay a show with him working on it."
Jeremy looked disgusted. He pulled his attention away from the grimy man on the floor and looked over his star performer in somewhat the manner of a grommet looking over something exquisitely scrumptious and expensive and hard to get. He smiled. Carly quelled a desire to squirm away from him.
"Well, the producers are here. They want to see the additions. Make sure it all goes OK. You know."
Carly knew. She knew very well. What the producers wanted was a chance to hob nob with the star of the production, a chance to get an arm around her waist and pretend -- they gave her the creeps. None of this showed in her well schooled face. Carly had paid her dues to get to where she was in the glam rock biz and she knew what she had to do to stay there. Bigger, better, sexier, more, more, more. And to change with the tide. Hers was one of the few big, loud shows that still brought in the customers by the thousands.
She gave her short, tight skirt a twitch to settle it into place and walked off with Jeremy. Her long-legged stride made it difficult for him to keep up. Neither noticed the man on the floor open his eyes and look after them. He was bemused by her defense of him. He reached for the bottle and tipped the remains into his mouth. It tasted foul. But anything would taste foul after sleeping on the floor in a drunken stupor.
He got to his feet, stretched and wandered off in search of breakfast, or an unreasonable facsimile thereof. His walk was an odd combination of shamble and lurch combined with a singleness of purpose. His clothes were a disgrace, even among the hard working, hard living roadies. The only thing remotely kempt about him was his face. Dirt was seemingly ingrained in his skin, yet he was always clean shaven. It was a little odd to anyone who really thought about it. Fortunately, no one did, not even the drunken electrician.
"Ray!" a light female voice called as he stepped out of the building.
He frowned and blinked in the sunlight. He looked around to see a small, plump, bustling young woman in denims and a suitcoat over a silk shirt headed toward him with a very determined look on her face. "There you are. Carly needs you."
"Carly," he repeated, staring down into her tawny eyes under the finely arched brows. Something glimmered in the back of his mind as he visually traced the lines of her generous mouth. For once there wasn't the hint of a grin at the edges. A lopsided grin? "And that's just supposed to make me jump to and get with it, is it?"
"Get up on the wrong side of the floor?" she asked sweetly.
They stared into each other's eyes for a very long moment. Almost she could see something, or someone, in there who wasn't the insolent, annoying drunk she'd known for several years now. Sort of like those dreams she couldn't quite manage to grasp upon awaking.
His gaze dropped before he could connect the curly haired young woman with errant memories he didn't want to remember, and he turned away. "Bathroom," he muttered and moved off.
Terry stood there for a moment not knowing whether to be pissed or sad.
For just a moment there had been that elusive something she sometimes surprised in his eyes when he wasn't conscious of being watched. She waited for him to reappear. He'd apparently splashed water on his face and run his fingers through his shoulder length mop of gray hair. The rest was still pretty much worn formless denims, t-shirt and faded blue work shirt, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows.
"Lead on." He motioned for her to lead.
With a decided "hmph" sort of sound, Terry turned and led him back into the building at something approaching an insulted march. A huffy march? He hadn't decided when they found Carly, surrounded by producers and their entourages.
The suits were somber. The entourages were colorful, energetic, enthusiastic and kinetic without getting much of anything done. Ray shied back a trifle from an enthusiastic greeting from a very colorful young man who was trying too hard. One of the suits gave both Terry and Ray a dismissive once over and turned back to Carly.
Terry, used to this sort of treatment and threatened by it only in the privacy of her own mind, threaded her way through the crowd to Carly's side. She whispered something to the star that made her frown and then look around.
"Excuse me," she said to the producer at her side and she followed Terry back to where Ray stood. Her attention was on Terry. "What did you say?"
"He broke his leg skiing yesterday."
"Wait a minute. What the hell was Adolpho doing skiing yesterday?"
"Beats me," Terry shot back with a shrug of her shoulders. "All I know is what I just got told. Now. The other problem is that we can't get a sub until tomorrow."
"Terry -- rehearsal is in an hour and we go on tonight. Find somebody."
"I have -- sort of." She looked around at Ray who suddenly found himself the sole focus of two pairs of female eyes. This did not bode well.
He let his gaze drift from one to the other. A part of his mind was happily telling him that they were both lovely, that they were interested in him; that the short, round one was a nice armful while the taller one looked to have some spice. Another part of his mind was looking for a place to hide. Speculative looks were not a good thing. A third part was calculating that if they'd let him go now, he had time to get nicely fuzzed before it was time to make certain that all the electricity was going where it should.
Somebody brought over a chair and Carly sat down, crossing her long show girl legs, Terry standing beside her. "OK, Ray, here's the deal. An extra $500 for the day. You help out the show, you get extra cash, we part happy."
"To do what?"
"Stand on a pillar and look good."
It was a succinct answer. He thought about the set he had helped wire last night. He couldn't recall anything really odd about it. Lots of pyrotechnics and lasers, but nothing too difficult, nothing too dangerous. "Just -- uhm -- stand there."
"Yeah. In costume, of course."
"Of course," Terry chimed in.
"Of course. What kind of costume?" He might not have a lot of pride, but he was not going to let them dress him up as something foolish. Was he?
"It's pretty dignified, as our costumes go. Kinda a ninja-ish under-part, white, no hood or face covering, blue vest, white boots. Mundane."
"Yeah. The designer said it wouldn't take away from the effects."
He looked from one to the other. "$500."
"Yes."
"Done."
Carly stood up, shook his hand and went back to the money men. Terry would handle getting Ray cleaned up, costumed and to the rehearsal on time. Jeremy looked around and scowled at Ray's back as he walked away. Scum. Just scum. Well, they'd see. He straightened his tie and started listening to the men around him again.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Not too far away, another slightly overindulgent gentleman rolled over onto his back on a silk sheeted bed and groaned. A long, elegant, bitter chocolate and cream cat craned his head around to stare at him with glittering sapphire eyes spoiled only by being exceptionally crossed. The cat stretched luxuriatingly and patted at the man with one dainty paw. Another groan. The cat came to its feet in an unutterably elegant roll and jumped onto the man's chest.
"Dammit, go away!"
Purrrrrrrrrr. Thrummmmmmmm. Purrrrrrrrrr.
The cat flattened its muzzle against the man's chest and rubbed his chin against him. The cold, wet nose found bare skin. The man flailed at the covers to get his hands loose so he could deal with the cat. His head came out from under his pillow. He scowled ferociously at the cat, his dark eyebrows pulling down and together. A face! Joy lit the eyes of the cat who threw himself into happily making it known to its master just how happy the cat was to see his face.
He finally got a hand on the cat to restrain its fascinating display of marking behavior and, sitting on a desire to toss the cat bodily out the nearby window without benefit of opening the casement first, dropped the cat onto the floor.
"Dammit, I told you to go away." Someday, he would change the cat's name. Really he would. He rolled over onto his stomach and stared at the cat who was now daintily washing his nether regions, one long elegant nearly black foot stretched over his head in perfect disdain for human conventions. Slowly, the man smiled.
Eventually, he got up, ignoring his throbbing head, and padded into the bathroom. He spared not a glance at his reflection. He didn't need to catalogue the shoulder length medium brown hair with the occasional streak of gold that framed his chiseled face; the deep brown eyes under heavy dark brows that reflected his angers more easily than his joys; the massively muscled, triangular torso; the heavily muscled arms, legs and buttocks. He knew he was an impressive specimen of manhood. He had worked hard to attain his current physique. He worked out with weights, training hard, maintaining a grueling schedule of martial arts training, including several sword styles, and general exercise just to make certain that he would continue to survive. He deserved to look like a minor deity in some incredibly healthy pantheon.
This morning, he was a little less enthusiastic about his survival than usual. His head throbbed, his mouth still tasted like the bottom of a bird cage and he was wondering just what he had thought he was doing going on a bender like that last night. He stared at the date displayed on his bedside clock for a moment in shock. Last night? He seemed to have lost three days. What had he been doing? An odd sense of deja vu flowed through him and was gone. With a shake of his head, he stripped the oddly stained sheets from his bed, dumped them in the dirty clothes hamper and decided that a thorough workout was in order. He dismissed the peculiarly alcohol smell on the sheets without out a thought.
He finished his morning routine, including an hour of stretching and martial arts practice forms; showered, shaved, only fractionally noticed that some scars he had carried three days earlier were gone, and went downstairs for breakfast. Instead of breakfast, he found a short, surly note on the island center of his kitchen. He read it twice, looked at the back and frowned at the note.
"It's over. Goodbye. Fix your own breakfast."
It seemed as though Dot had decided not to stay on after all. He briefly wondered if the three-day bender had something to do with her decision. He tossed the note in the trash and browsed through his refrigerator. Yogurt, antipasto salad, left over pizza, a green steak -- surely steak should not be that peculiar color -- defrosting venison roast -- not too much in the way of breakfast items. He looked at his watch. 11:30am. Lunch seemed more reasonable. He would go out.
He dressed carefully, gathered up his wallet and keys and left the building. Lunch. Where? Ah, a diner. He hadn't eaten in a diner in some time. This would work. He walked through the door and immediately felt tension. He quelled his initial reaction to turn around and walk out, and looked around as though unconcerned. Oh, dear. In the back corner booth was a skinny young woman, barely more than a child. Her face was devoid of color as she met his gaze. He could almost feel her fear, her terror. Her eyes slid past him to someone behind him.
The muzzle of a gun nestled against his ribs. "Just a word w' ye and all's right," the grizzled little man behind him said. Play along time.
The girl shrank back into the corner of the booth as he sat down. The man grinned, a snaggle-toothed grin. "Well, well, well. Y'know who we got here?" he asked his companion. She shook her head in negation, never taking her eyes off of the younger man. "Li'le Lor' Font'eroy. As I live and breathe. Y'don't remember, do ye? Forty year ago it'were. Ye lookin' as ye do and me a young'n. Me best friend he were. Me best," the man hissed. "This is the spapeen what took me friend out. And f'r wot? Some misploiced ider he seen 'im at one o' them death camps in th'war... Well, l'il missy here an' me are gonna take wot all ye got an' be done wi' ye. Ain't we?"
"I might have something to say about that."
"Not if'n you're dead already."
A very cold spot was forming in his midriff. This looked bad. Very bad. He absolutely hated waking up on a slab in the morgue. His mind twitched away from that very odd thought.
It was this juncture at which Terry and Ray entered the establishment. Terry was following her prize, trying very hard to keep him out of the alcohol and get some food into him. Ray staggered to the back booth as though drawn by a magnet and nearly fell onto the table. He looked up into the big man's eyes. Even partially befuddled with leftover alcohol and a hangover, there was a look of shock, fear, terror in Ray's eyes. He reared back, right into the grizzled little man. The gun went off, missing Ray, missing his intended target, missing the girl, and catching the little man in the foot. He howled. Ray pulled himself off the table and vanished into the back kitchen area with remarkable speed and agility for someone half drunk. He ran. Out the back door and down the alleyway until his alcohol loaded system told him he had to stop.
He was gasping for breath, one hand pressed to his side where he seemed to think he should have a cramp starting, the other against the wall for balance. Images whirled through his brain, images that made no sense, yet felt so very right. The man in the booth. Something about-- He jerked and spun, slamming his back into the wall, when someone touched him. Terry. He sagged and tried to make up his mind whether to sit down or throw up. Terry was looking worried. She had once before seen a look like Ray had given the guy in the booth. The results had not been pretty.
"You OK?"
"Yeah."
Sirens. He looked up. Not in the alleyway. A door banged open and shut. The man from the booth, the one Ray had reacted to, and the girl had followed Terry out the back way. The girl still looked terrified, but so far the new man pulling her after him hadn't made a move to do anything but help her.
Damn, she was young. Too young. Too vulnerable. Too tragic. She needed someone to take care of her. He looked up and down the alleyway. There was the gray-haired old man who had inadvertently rescued him. Their eyes met again. There was one of those strange flickers in the back of his mind as he tried to recognize the man. Ray paled under the grime and looked away. The younger man frowned at that, but the girl with him was of more importance than some stale drunk. Besides, the woman with him seemed to have things well in hand for now.
Yet it was Ray who took hold of Terry's arm and told her it was time to get out of there. After all, if he got arrested, Carly would have a fit. "Burger King," he uttered succinctly and headed for the end of the alley way away from the cops.
The younger man looked after them, a vague feeling of unease at what he was witnessing percolating in the back of his mind. He was missing something. He was sure of it. For a moment, just for a moment, he had one of those flashes that tried to tell him something important. He winced as the lancing pain that followed those flashes arced behind his eyes. The girl's eyes widened in -- fear, worry. He caught the look and smiled at her. It was a warm smile that softened the sculpted planes of his face and made him look much more accessible. With a shake of his head, he also decided that discretion was the better part of valor and left the alley with his new companion.
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