The End is Never Final

The blow is enough to send him crashing to the floor. His legs buckle and he can almost see himself sprawling at Le Chein’s feet. In his mind’s eye he can see the picture that he’d make. Lying, stomach to the ground, maybe the soft cotton of his t-shirt riding up to expose his bare skin to the cool floor. One knee cocked; the other flat. Maybe he’d even find himself with his ass protruding. A “come fuck me” after the tongue that was forced down his throat.

The right knee makes the impact first, hitting the floor with a hollow thud that shudders through the entire length of his leg. His teeth bite neatly into the flesh of his tongue. The pain dancing along his jaw, his teeth seeking the comfort of his bottom lip (the row of darkened scabs confess to this coping mechanism). But he doesn’t sprawl. Even as the blood dribbles from his lips, his focus remains on keeping a semblance of control. A task that he does, to some degree, manage to accomplish. After his right knee hits, his left also does, allowing him to remain partially upright. Eyes lift seeking some form of reassurance from his Captain.

There is none. The eyes that meet his refuse to hold contact. The brown eyes drop as if the intensity of the other man’s eyes is almost painful. They’re the type of eyes that hold the greatest good for the greatest number of people as more than just some over-used cliché. Le Chein can do anything and, as long as all of seaQuest’s torpedoes remain firmly lodged in their places, nothing else matters. So, the vein in Hudson’s forehead pulsates even as his eyes bore heated holes just out of the range of Lucas’ eyesight.

In a cartoon world, smoke would be steaming from both ears in batches fat enough to put Yosemite Sam to shame (get that flea-bitten carcass off’n my real estate as opposed to get the fuck off my sub). But in a cartoon world guns are always being pointed around and no one gets shot; in the real world, bullets actually hit targets and no cartoon angels on big fluffy clouds can make you come back in time for the next episode.

Fingers hook under Lucas’ jaw, using it as a handle to force his face up. Later dark bruises would give evidence to this; currently, panic blocks out the pinch. No teeth through the lip, re-opening barely healed scabs, or half hearted cries, there is only the feel of a gun near his over-heated skin and the rush of adrenaline in his ears.

Le Chein’s breath is hot against his cheek; hotter still when the man leans in, breathing words into his ear, “You’re so young, aren’t you? I’m going to kill you, you know. It’s nothing personal.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lucas makes a show of rolling his eyes, trying to hide the fact that his hands are shaking. “You’ll kill me because Hudson isn’t helping you and then you’ll drag someone else up here and kill them too. What happens when you run out of people?”

The hand sends him sprawling to the floor. His face rests up against Hudson’s lightly polished shoe and he just barely has time to think this gut must have nothing to do in his off time, before he is hauled to his feet again. Le Chein is staring at him, eyes flashing and angry.

“You stupid stygg pojke!” He grabs a fistful of blond hair, making the youth give out a sharp cry of pain, “I’ll enjoy watching you die.”

“You’re going to have to wait until it comes out on video,” The goon turns around, sending his weapon clattering to the ground. Bridger stands framed in the doorway. His gun is ready and a smile is pasted onto to his aging face. Behind him stand Henderson, Krieg and Piccolo.

“You idiot,” Le Chein shouts, “You fucking idiot.”

Le Chein moves quickly, propelled by rage. His hands are outstretched, forming a hideous parody of a Hollywood horror film, maybe The Death of Frankenstein. Before a shot could be fired, he had Lucas by the throat. Strong hands encircling his flesh, bringing tears, sharp like pin pricks, to his eyes.

“A son for a son,” He rambles, words eventually running together. “Asonforason. Asonforason.”

“Jesus Christ! Get him off him.” Lawrence Wolenczak reaches the scene, announcing his presence with panicked shouts. “Get him off my son.”

Before the words are even out of his mouth, Hudson is on Le Chein. Le Chein is big, bigger than Hudson, but Hudson is soon met by Bridger. The two men work together, combining their efforts, lifting the other man from the youth. When he comes free, Le Chein reels, landing on the floor, his face smashed against Krieg’s combat boot.

“Stay right there, handsome.” The gun pointed at George Le Chein’s carefully sculpted head.

Lucas lies crumpled on the floor. Bridger leans over, helping the dazed teenager to his feet. He stumbles, the floor seems to sway under his footing. Far away, his father reaches out his arms and, much like the toddler he once was, Lucas staggers into those arms. As they envelope him, the world turns a soft shade of grey. Sounding as though he is underwater, Bridger’s voice garbles to the surface, Hold on. He’s going to faint.

His blue eyes slip shut, closing out the world.