Evan Marchand (bitterlyimmune) wrote in immune_ic, @ 2012-07-25 02:18:00 |
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The first sign that this wasn't reality should've come when Evan realized that they were at Grand Central Station. He and Elliot stood on the roof, throwing practice darts in lieu of throwing knives at a picture of Brandon Stone's head, like they always used to do when they lived back at that hell of a safehouse. Only this time, Rae and David sat on the sidelines, watching with amused expressions. Rae was as pregnant as she was today; maybe a little more, the protrusion of her stomach was a little larger than it was right now. David cheered as Elliot hit Brandon's photograph directly in the right eye, and Evan couldn't help but let out a laugh of his own while Rae turned and chuckled quietly. Lightning struck and the whole scene changed. Elliot lay on the roof, a bullet hole in his head and Rae and David, still standing there, screamed and cried, calling Evan a monster. Heartless. Asking how he could murder someone who was supposed to be his best friend. "He was dying!" Evan insisted. "He was dying, I had to!" David seethed and shook his head no, then stepped forward and took the gun from Evan's hand, turning it on him. "You reap what you sow!" he screamed, then raised the gun and fired. Before the dream bullet could hit him, Evan shot out of the bed with a start. Sheets a tangled mess around his tired body, he closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to stave off the images of both Elliot's dream-murder and the real incident. Murder. Assisted suicide. Whatever... it's still... Evan's mine tortured him, and he shook his head quickly trying to stop it. He picked his phone up from the bedside table and sent Leah a quick text, walking across the room to get a drink of water while he waited for her reply. Water bottle in hand, he sat back down and read the message, then sent a few more back and forth, determining that his girlfriend was coming over. Alone. Without Marigold. Okay. He didn't want the little girl to see him like this anyway. Rubbing his face with his hands, he reached down to the floor and pulled his jeans back on, then sat on the bed, staring at his hands. Murder. Assisted suicide. Neither one sounded better than the other, because in both cases, a mother lost the father of her child, a brother lost a brother... and he lost a best friend. "I'm sorry, Elliot..." he murmured quietly to no one. "If I'd... if I'd been doing my job in the first place, this wouldn't have even been necessary." Because Team Science would not have had live infected in the compound. No fucking way. |