logan_watcher (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} logan_watcher) wrote in ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} free_form2,@ 2008-05-20 14:30:00 |
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24 Hours
“You know where my son is.”
Logan jumped when he heard the voice, having thought he was the only one in the room. His pen dropped to the floor and rolled under the desk as the Watcher turned to see a disheveled blonde standing by the window, blond hair and pale skin caked with blood and soot.
In an instant, Logan’s heart stopped and bile rose in his throat.
“You,” he began, clearing his throat when his voice stuck. “You must be Samantha Blanchard.”
How charming …
Samantha glared at the man, noting how he used too much product in his hair and apparently didn’t know what a razor was. At first she figured he didn’t shave because he was too busy being a Watcher – but he apparently had time to style his hair and stick all that gunk in it, so he must’ve had some time to himself.
Enough to root himself into her son’s life.
“Is the Council behind this?” the Slayer growled, her steps toward the Watcher dangerously methodical. “Did you come here from London to rip my son away from me?”
“No,” Logan responded with surprising calm. Rupert Giles specifically told Logan before he came to Las Vegas not to confront Samantha, but he never once told the Watcher what to do should the Slayer ever confront him.
“I was sent to make sure Cory was safe. The Order of Zeus wants your son; they’re convinced he’s the Chosen Child and that he’ll bring about the end of the world. I was supposed to come here and do my part to prevent that from happening.”
Samantha squinted, pursing her lips and finally standing inches from Logan, who seemed glued to his seat. She felt fire build in her lungs, and for a moment she considered reaching out and grabbing the Watcher’s throat. She’d already killed three people that night – what was one more for the count?
But this one knew where Cory was. This one had access to the boy. She needed Logan for the time being.
“Does your part include writing front-page stories?” Samantha spat, jamming her elbow into Logan’s nose. He grunted and stumbled out of his chair, blood trickling onto the floor as he struggled to get back to his feet.
“Where is my son, Watcher?”
Logan was too busy coughing to answer the question, feeling the warmth of his own blood trickling from his nostril. So that was what it felt like to get clocked by a Slayer – once again, the Watcher was glad he wasn’t a vampire. Otherwise, that would be a nightly threat.
He felt the Slayer grab him by the back of his shirt, lifting him off the ground and spinning him so he was face-to-face with her. In such close proximity, Logan noted how dark and lifeless Samantha’s eyes were, as if something had eaten away at her and took whatever spark of humanity she had left.
It was easily the scariest thing Logan had ever seen.
“Where … is my son?!”
Before Logan even had a chance to answer, Samantha grabbed the stake from the pocket of her torn jeans and jabbed it into his left thigh. The Watcher screamed so loud his voice echoed off the walls, and he dropped back to the floor in a bloody heap. He wasn’t planning to answer the question before, but he certainly wouldn’t tell her now. Not out of spite, but because he couldn’t think straight with all the pain.
The Slayer stood over Logan, her fists clenched. She watched blood seep from his leg, her eyes widening for a second. She felt the fire intensify, her fists growing so tight she was puncturing her own skin. No one would keep her from Cory, not even some metrosexual American Watcher.
“You have 24 hours,” Samantha said with no feeling. “If you don’t tell me where Cory is when I come back, your head will be on the front page of the Beacon.
“And your body will sink to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.”
Logan finally looked up, only to see Samantha disappear out the window. The apartment was suddenly quiet again, uncomfortably so. Logan remained motionless for a moment and considered calling 9-1-1. But near as he could tell, the stake didn’t break any bones, so he could deal with the wound himself.
But there was a phone call he had to make.
Crawling along the floor, Logan went into the bathroom, using his arms and good leg to elevate himself onto the toilet. The Watcher opened his medical kit before bracing himself against the shower stall. Tugging lightly on the stake, Logan grunted before taking a deep breath. With a scream, Logan tore the wood from his leg, letting the stake fall to the floor as he tried to regain himself.
The Watcher nearly blacked out, then he nearly threw up. But somehow, he managed to steel himself against the pain before treating and wrapping the wound with bandages. A trip to the doctor would be in order, but first thing was first.
Limping back into his office, Logan picked up his cellphone and hit the speed dial. He sighed when he heard the voicemail trigger.
“Detective Starnes … Logan Guevera. This isn’t a newspaper thing, I … Samantha Blanchard came to see me. And I have a nice wound on my leg to prove it. I figured with her being a fugitive and all, you’d wanna know, but – well, you might wanna be careful.
“You know my number if you have any questions.”
“You know where my son is.”
Logan jumped when he heard the voice, having thought he was the only one in the room. His pen dropped to the floor and rolled under the desk as the Watcher turned to see a disheveled blonde standing by the window, blond hair and pale skin caked with blood and soot.
In an instant, Logan’s heart stopped and bile rose in his throat.
“You,” he began, clearing his throat when his voice stuck. “You must be Samantha Blanchard.”
How charming …
Samantha glared at the man, noting how he used too much product in his hair and apparently didn’t know what a razor was. At first she figured he didn’t shave because he was too busy being a Watcher – but he apparently had time to style his hair and stick all that gunk in it, so he must’ve had some time to himself.
Enough to root himself into her son’s life.
“Is the Council behind this?” the Slayer growled, her steps toward the Watcher dangerously methodical. “Did you come here from London to rip my son away from me?”
“No,” Logan responded with surprising calm. Rupert Giles specifically told Logan before he came to Las Vegas not to confront Samantha, but he never once told the Watcher what to do should the Slayer ever confront him.
“I was sent to make sure Cory was safe. The Order of Zeus wants your son; they’re convinced he’s the Chosen Child and that he’ll bring about the end of the world. I was supposed to come here and do my part to prevent that from happening.”
Samantha squinted, pursing her lips and finally standing inches from Logan, who seemed glued to his seat. She felt fire build in her lungs, and for a moment she considered reaching out and grabbing the Watcher’s throat. She’d already killed three people that night – what was one more for the count?
But this one knew where Cory was. This one had access to the boy. She needed Logan for the time being.
“Does your part include writing front-page stories?” Samantha spat, jamming her elbow into Logan’s nose. He grunted and stumbled out of his chair, blood trickling onto the floor as he struggled to get back to his feet.
“Where is my son, Watcher?”
Logan was too busy coughing to answer the question, feeling the warmth of his own blood trickling from his nostril. So that was what it felt like to get clocked by a Slayer – once again, the Watcher was glad he wasn’t a vampire. Otherwise, that would be a nightly threat.
He felt the Slayer grab him by the back of his shirt, lifting him off the ground and spinning him so he was face-to-face with her. In such close proximity, Logan noted how dark and lifeless Samantha’s eyes were, as if something had eaten away at her and took whatever spark of humanity she had left.
It was easily the scariest thing Logan had ever seen.
“Where … is my son?!”
Before Logan even had a chance to answer, Samantha grabbed the stake from the pocket of her torn jeans and jabbed it into his left thigh. The Watcher screamed so loud his voice echoed off the walls, and he dropped back to the floor in a bloody heap. He wasn’t planning to answer the question before, but he certainly wouldn’t tell her now. Not out of spite, but because he couldn’t think straight with all the pain.
The Slayer stood over Logan, her fists clenched. She watched blood seep from his leg, her eyes widening for a second. She felt the fire intensify, her fists growing so tight she was puncturing her own skin. No one would keep her from Cory, not even some metrosexual American Watcher.
“You have 24 hours,” Samantha said with no feeling. “If you don’t tell me where Cory is when I come back, your head will be on the front page of the Beacon.
“And your body will sink to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.”
Logan finally looked up, only to see Samantha disappear out the window. The apartment was suddenly quiet again, uncomfortably so. Logan remained motionless for a moment and considered calling 9-1-1. But near as he could tell, the stake didn’t break any bones, so he could deal with the wound himself.
But there was a phone call he had to make.
Crawling along the floor, Logan went into the bathroom, using his arms and good leg to elevate himself onto the toilet. The Watcher opened his medical kit before bracing himself against the shower stall. Tugging lightly on the stake, Logan grunted before taking a deep breath. With a scream, Logan tore the wood from his leg, letting the stake fall to the floor as he tried to regain himself.
The Watcher nearly blacked out, then he nearly threw up. But somehow, he managed to steel himself against the pain before treating and wrapping the wound with bandages. A trip to the doctor would be in order, but first thing was first.
Limping back into his office, Logan picked up his cellphone and hit the speed dial. He sighed when he heard the voicemail trigger.
“Detective Starnes … Logan Guevera. This isn’t a newspaper thing, I … Samantha Blanchard came to see me. And I have a nice wound on my leg to prove it. I figured with her being a fugitive and all, you’d wanna know, but – well, you might wanna be careful.
“You know my number if you have any questions.”