Reckless: Season 2: Gratitude: Part I - Act 2
by redmoon
Gratitude: Part I - Act 2
“When were you going to tell me about this?” Rachel held the unfolded letter in front of Logan’s face.
Logan’s mind raced with excuses. He couldn’t see what it was, but he had a few guesses. After all, he had been living a second life for almost a year. Eventually Rachel would figure it out.
“Uh,” he began, his eyes blinking rapidly. “It’s not what you think–”
“It sure as hell better be,” she frowned. She glanced at the letter again and then back to him. “You’re getting the promotion, right?”
Blink. Promotion. Right. “Oh, yeah. I am getting a promotion–” Too late. Poor recovery.
“What did you think I thought it was?” Rachel’s frown deepened. She dropped the letter to the coffee table and crossed her arms. “What are you not telling me?”
Logan swallowed. Way to dig your own grave. “Umm,” he stammered. Rachel was looking less impressed with every passing second of hesitation. Then the answer sparked into his mind. “Honey, do you remember the warehouse?”
Now it was Rachel’s turn to blink. She glanced into the distance as the memory of her husband’s ‘heroism’ was recalled. “You mean when you found all those hostages last year?”
Logan nodded. “Right,” he sighed. “Well, one of them tracked me down today - that was why I was late—” only a little white lie “—and I was afraid they were sending me letters. I didn’t want to worry you.”
Rachel was in fact looking quite worried. As she understood it, Logan had stuck his neck out for over a thousand drugged and injured people whom he had found in a warehouse... considering the police had never made any arrests, it was dangerous to be recognized as the one who had liberated them.
“But,” Logan interrupted her thoughts, his own memories of the battle which had been the real cause of those casualties filling his head, “since it isn’t a letter from a devoted fan, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Hanna poked her head in from the front hall, eager to pounce on her father in any argument between her parents. “What are we worrying about?” she inquired.
“Nothing,” Rachel said gently, her arms now uncrossed. “We were discussing your father’s promotion.”
Logan shrugged. “I don’t have it yet.”
“You will,” his wife smiled, drawing him into a hug. The embrace lasted long enough for Hanna to scoff with teenaged disgust and retreat to the kitchen. “Come on,” Rachel said at last. “Food’s getting cold.”
Niki poked the small key into the lock and opened the door to her mailbox. Inside was the small but adequate cheque from the Watcher’s Council. It paid for rent and groceries and not much else.
As she reached in for it, her eyes turned to look out the glass door to the street where she saw the sight she had been expecting since the dream.
Whistler stood on the sidewalk under the umbrella of a hotdog stand apparently arguing with the vendor. This made her smile and she closed the mailbox, the cheque in hand. Her smile slowly faded as Whistler, his hands gesticulating passionately, drew a knife and began to gut the vendor in the middle of the sidewalk.
Niki closed her eyes and shook her head in disbelief and once she opened them the scene had returned to Whistler gesturing at the poor excuse for a New York hotdog and the uninjured vendor indicating the poor excuse for exact change with which Whistler had paid.
The frown still present, Niki left the lobby and returned to her room, her mind searching for not only the cause, but also the meaning of the hallucination. Had it been a vision? A premonition? The Slayer had never experienced premonitions in the form of daylight hallucinations before.
She decided, after a night off because of slow business, to also take the day off from her job-hunt and take a stroll through the park.
It was an absolutely spectacular day. After last evening’s drizzle the ground was a little spongy but the grass was a brilliantly fresh green and everything sparkled. Each color was enhanced as it always is when wet: the traces of late summer dust washed away.
With the fresh air in her lungs and the sun on her shoulders, Niki’s troubles seemed far away and unimportant. She sat down on a bench which looked relatively sun-dried and stripped off her black leather jacket, leaving only her white T-shirt. Setting down the coat and closing her eyes, she let the warmth of the sun settled into her.
When finally the direct rays of the sun peeked out from the branches of the tree, Niki had to scrunch her eyes closed to keep from being blinded. She raised a hand to shield her eyes but a shadow had already fallen across her.
She opened her eyes and saw a young woman standing with her back to the bench, head blocking the sun, apparently stopped for a rest. The young woman had short dark brown hair and was dressed for this weather - unlike the Slayer.
Niki closed her eyes again, shifting her head into the shade of the surrounding trees when something made her open them again.
Staring at her now in the broad daylight was the young woman, her face contorted into the form of a vampire. Leering. Niki’s eyes widened. All around the creature’s mouth was bright red blood. She stared at the Slayer with an amused contempt until the wind blew.
With the rustling of the branches, the shade disappeared and the sun stabbed into the both the Slayer’s eyes, temporarily blinding her. When the afterimages had disappeared, Niki was alone on the side of the path, the woman nowhere in sight.
The Slayer walked home without another thought of what a beautiful day it was. Someone or something was trying to tell her something. Maybe it was her own instincts telling her things were too quiet. Maybe she was inventing enemies since she no longer had any to fight. Or maybe not.
Spending the rest of the day in front of the television, combing the news for reports of unexplained deaths, she cancelled her plans of drinking that night in favor of patrolling.
As soon as the sun had set, she stuffed some stakes into her pockets and hopped on the elevator down to the lobby. She had gotten less than a block from her apartment towards Central Park when she felt someone following her.
With a fist gripping the pointed spire of wood, Niki ducked off into an alley to wait for her stalker to pass. Sure enough, the shape passed as a silhouette against the opposing street light and Niki waited a heartbeat before springing out.
It was over in the blink of an eye. Niki didn’t even get a glimpse of the face of the vampire before it had become a pile of dust on the concrete. With a satisfied nod, Niki continued on towards the park and found no other vampire all night.
Waking up the next morning with a groan of satisfaction, she stretched out on her bed and squinted into the light of the sun which shone in from her window.
Bleary eyed and in search of coffee, Niki stumbled out of her room towards the kitchen. She wasn’t sure what time it was, but it went Slay, Sleep, Coffee, Sleep, Bar... then she wasn’t sure where it went, what ever ‘it’ was, but that order had treated her well so far, so she generally gave in to it. Now it was Coffee.
Plunking down on the couch in the living room, she switched on the television. The noon news was on –hinting at the time– and the percolating of the coffee maker could be heard.
The gurgling of the coffee maker filled the small apartment, making it seem as though there were someone else there – even more than the voices of the news anchor and reporter. Without that precious caffeine, Niki couldn’t really call herself awake. It would be a lie.
They hadn’t rounded up any suspects, the reporter continued. Gurgle, went the coffee. The smell of the beautiful coffee began to spread from the kitchen. Velvety. Smooth. Heinous. The crime last night was heinous, the reporter continued. Although there were no signs that the victim had been either robbed or sexually assaulted, the police weren’t willing to attribute the murder to a random act of violence yet. There was always the possibility of a drug related—
Gurgle, sputter, went the coffee, as if to say ‘pay attention to me.’ Niki’s eyelids were heavy and she had a great urge to go back to sleep. She sank into a more comfortable position on the couch: nearly laying with her feet up on the coffee table and only her head propped up to watch the TV.
She folded her hands on her stomach when she noticed something black on her fingers. With a frown she opened her eyes and then squinted to get a better look at it. The black mark covered her right hand in patchy splotches. It was dry but smudged when she rubbed it.
Gurgle, gurgle. The aroma of the coffee was overpowering now and she stood, turning up the television as she moved into the kitchen. She retrieved a big mug – the biggest one she had and set it down on the counter. It nearly slid off but she caught it, realizing she had set it on top of the black felt-tip marker. With a frown she set the mug aside and picked up the marker.
With infinite slowness, she looked from the uncapped marker to the ink on her hands. With a frown she glanced back towards the fridge and the whiteboard on which had been scrawled in her handwriting: Now you see our power.
Niki slowly looked back towards the counter where her coffee mug sat innocently. Beside it was the coffee maker. There was no coffee in the carafe, no water in the small tank and no smell of delicious coffee filling the room. Niki blinked. She hadn't turned it on yet.
She looked back at the whiteboard and its cryptic message. Then the words of the news anchor from the other room started to penetrate.
“To recap our top stories for this hour; a brutal murder on the Upper East Side last night has stumped police inspectors who can find neither motive nor suspects. The woman, who we are just learning was local area resident Megan Brandon was apparently walking home just after sunset last night when she was brutally attacked and stabbed once in the heart...”
Niki, her eyes wide and her body growing numb, slowly made her way towards the kitchen table where her black leather jacket had been dumped early this morning. With hands which refused to tremble, she emptied its pockets until she found the stake. Her shallow breathing ceased when she noticed – how could she have missed it last night? She hadn’t been drinking! She hadn’t tasted Stuff for almost a year! This wasn’t fair! Yet the blood on the end of the stake would not be rationalized out of existence.
Niki swallowed. She slowly moved back into the living room and sat on the floor in front of the television, the stake clutched in her hands.
Beside the news anchor was the floating head-shot of Megan Brandon. Bright young aspiring law student. Recent survivor of the Atlantic Avenue hostage crisis. As Niki stared at the picture, the face of the woman from the park flashed before her eyes. The same woman. The Slayer leaned over slightly to look back into the kitchen at the whiteboard message.
Now you see our power.
Gurgle, gurgle.
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