What is Past is Prologue

Title: What is Past is Prologue
Author/pseudonym: black fungi
Email address: oldblackfungi@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Pairings: J/B, B/m

Status: In-Progress
Date: 06/02/06
Archive: Yes
Archive author:
Archive email address:
Series/Sequel:
Category: Crossovers, Drama, First Times
Author's website:

Disclaimers:
TV series The Sentinel remains the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Production while La Femme Nikita is owned by Warner Bros and USA Network. I claim authorship to this story which is written simply for mindless entertainment... STRICTLY a non-profit endeavor.

Notes:
Do note the following for easier reading:
*...* - Indicates words are stressed (bold)
//...// - Indicates unspoken thoughts (italics)
[...] - Indicates mind-speak
switch - Computer that processes signals received in a telephone network. A couple of switches make the building blocks. In the event where all switches fail, the whole network will crash.

Summary:
Will Blair's shawdowy past threaten his new found tranquility and life with Jim? The Sentinel xover La Femme Nikita

Warnings:

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-- 2336hrs --
-- Abandoned Warehouse, 1269th Street --


//Shit! Shit! Shit! How the hell do we get into this mess?// Blair cursed under his breath as he dragged Rafe behind a large crate.


It had started out *excellent*. Jim was astonishingly pleasant and did not broach on either subject - the shooting or Michael - throughout the ride, as if they no longer interest him. But Blair knew better, and he appreciated the respect of privacy.


Grocery shopping was a breeze. At twenty past ten at the 24-hour mart, there weren't any screaming kids, bustling housewives or endless queues to put up with. In less than ten minutes, they had all their groceries tucked happily in the trunk. They bumped into H and Rafe about five minutes later when Blair wanted to post his check, and as they both were intending to have supper, Jim had invited them along to Tony's which they accepted.


That was when it went horribly wrong.


First it was the problem of misdirection. It wasn't at the 1296th Street, though Jim and Rafe swore they were certain of the location. After about forty minutes of aimless driving and H's grumbling about an empty stomach and lousy navigators, Jim picked up an activity in an abandoned warehouse off 1269th Street. Given Jim's serious look on his face, Blair didn't think it was legal.


Then there was this other problem of interference of the reception. The radio wouldn't work and neither would their cell phones. //Goodbye backup...// So it was up to them to check it out, and Jim didn't seem too optimistic about the odds.


And then Jim and all his bull-headedness told him to stick to Rafe. No matter how Blair insisted that it was a guide's job to cover his sentinel's ass (and it was a fucking great ass), Jim told him gently that he sensed more than ten individuals and that the place reeked of enough firepower to blow the whole joint completely. While he needed a guide to help him with his senses, what he needed most was someone with a gun right now. //That hurts. Never mind that I understood Jim's decision, but it still fucking hurts.// So Jim and H paired up while he ended up with Rafe. And after all that BS talk about covering one's ass, his sentinel had the gall to get himself shot. Yeah, a real fucking asshole!


//Then Rafe got shot, and that leaves only H in action which is not very fair since it is... lemme see... Twelve against one?// And he couldn't get to his sentinel because bullets were flying everywhere like drops of rain. //Whatever can go wrong now?//


A constant muffled shrill was heard amidst the loud shootings. Blair looked around and tried to focus on the annoying source when it occurred him that his cell might be ringing. It was. Maybe their luck was changing. //Thank *you*, Lord.// Clumsily fishing his phone out of his back pocket, he flipped it opened and gushed out: "You might not notice this; This ain't the greatest time to call me up, but if you could just reach Captain Banks at--"


"Adrian."


Funny how a single word could turn one's life around. For the second time that day, a deathly chill crawled up his spine. //Gods, tell me this isn't happening...//


"Cascade Tower in thirty minutes. You would find what you need in room 143, strapped under the bed."


The connection cut off abruptly, leaving Blair's mind working furiously around the given command. Thirty minutes. Thirty fucking minutes! He should've said no. Why the hell didn't he?! Stupid! Stupid!


Blair took a deep breath before punching Simon's numbers again, but all he heard was weird signals. //Fuck you! Fuck you who kill the fucking switch!// What was he to do? He couldn't very well leave them behind, not when the bad guys were on a mad shooting spree and with no goddamned backup. //Rafe's making an abstract art on concrete, Jim's out there hurt, unprotected with H and H ain't no guide to be cruising around with a sentinel whose whacked senses could fuck up anytime.// A guide's job is to protect the sentinel while the sentinel protects the tribe. And they couldn't do either if the guide was separated from his sentinel, whisked away to another responsibility. //I bet Burton didn't count on a guide with a part-time job.// Blair complained sullenly.


Thirty minutes. It would take him 21 minutes to get there, 17 minutes tops at breakneck speed and possibly 2 minutes to get to the room and have the equipment ready. That would leave him 11 minutes to settle this. //Settle what???// Blair rubbed the bridge of his nose furiously. //Damn you, Michael... I thought this was finished!// Should he leave? No, not like this. Too many against so few. The fact that the baddies were armed with mag .16s didn't exactly help. His sentinel might be toast with the few rounds of shots left. 28 minutes 49 seconds.


"Gimme your gun." The words spilled out before he even realized it.


"Huh?" Confused at Blair's odd request, Rafe could only blink. "Did you just say--"


"Gimme your gun." The words repeated itself in a voice that wanted no rebuke from the other man.


Giving his 'I'm-going-to-regret-this' look to the younger man, Rafe hesitantly placed his revolver to the outstretched hand.


//Weapon in hand.// It was as if part of him had slipped back into focus. Blair gripped the gun tightly as he turned his attention to the scene around him. His keen mind calculated their precarious state, the odds from Jim's position and their opponents'. A quick but satisfying estimation in his head made him nod unconsciously as though reaffirming his resolution to continue this madness before common sense hit him.


The shooters were emptying their bullets in his friends' direction, no longer at Rafe's, thinking they had scored one with him. Not a smart move, Blair reckoned, but they did saw him fall and boy, did he fall! Rafe wasn't that a big man but a hundred and seventy pounds of dead weight crashing hard on impact onto the smaller man wasn't exactly a friendly punch on the stomach. Blair rubbed the bruised area absentmindedly at that thought.


"Blair? What the hell do you think you are doing?"


The question jarred him back to the present, and Blair mentally cursed himself for letting himself be caught adrift by his own thoughts. 26 minutes 42 seconds, his watch reminded him. //Any more of this daydreaming, and Section's gonna put my picture in the obituaries tomorrow.// He needed to finish this off quick.


Blatantly ignoring the question, Blair inspected the gun Rafe handed to him. It was an uncommon weight in his hands. Uncommon but not unfamiliar. It had been a while, but one never forgets. Not that he was partial to any guns, just that he preferred his old Browning automatic, hidden 'safely' under the floorboards of his previous lodging. Of course, he bet that that was non-existent any more, courtesy of an explosive experience orchestrated by his 'friendly' neighbors.


The weapon Rafe handed to him was in excellent condition, well cared for and maintained. He checked the clip and found it to be full. Rafe was shot and down before he was given a chance to return the favor.


A renegade bullet meant for Jim and H flew dangerously close and startled him.


"Fucking shits," Blair mumbled. //There oughta be a law against shitty shooters.// Taking a careful aim, Blair's shot cut a rope whose end had a large, brown bag. It effectively took out one of the men in black who just so happened to stand beneath it. //One goon gone, a couple more to go.//


His smooth fluid actions did not escape Rafe's attention, nor did the hard glint he spied in Blair's blue eyes. They were too much like Jim's - focused and on the kill. It had taken him a second to grasp what had just run in his clouded mind. //Kill?// Rafe gave a snort of disbelief. //Blair killing someone?// He has never thought of Blair and killing in the same line, not after the scene he pulled this morning, but Blair's eyes spoke otherwise. An amateur would have fumbled with nervousness. No, Blair wasn't nervous. He was READY. Realization then dawned on him, and he voiced his thoughts aloud: "You've done this before."


Blair looked up from the piece in his hands to the flushed face of his friend. It was not a question nor was the tone accusatory. It was simply a statement, possibly concluded after a series of observation, if Blair may add. Whether Blair admitted to it or not, made no difference to their current predicament. Anyway, he suspected Rafe had chose to believe what he believed no matter what reason he'd give, and to deny would be a waste of time which Blair hadn't had much to begin with. He could worry about Rafe's thoughts of him later. Right now Rafe *worried* him. He placed his hands on Rafe's forehead, noting the slight increase in temperature. Hell, maybe Blair could blame it all on delirium. With another muttered curse, he hastily relieved himself of his jacket and tucked Rafe with it. Given Jim's excitement to rush to the new opening of the restaurant, Blair wasn't given the opportunity to dress very warmly for the evening and without his jacket, the night's chill wasted no time to make itself known. Blair shivered visibly at the thought of a Blair-popsicle.


"I want in," Rafe whispered weakly and fumbled for the second gun strapped to his ankle. The awkward movement brought a crashing wave of pain searing through him, and he collapsed back against the crates, breathing breathlessly.


Blair rolled his eyes heavenwards. //Save me from all this masochistic shit.// He reached for the other gun and inspected the weapon as he did the first earlier. Rubbing his cold hands furiously on his thighs, he then cupped Rafe's face, forcing the older man to focus on him. "*You*", Blair stressed, "are out of the game. Jim and H however..."


Rafe may be light-headed from the blood loss and fever, but the trailing words were understandable enough. Jim and H needed all the help they could get, and if Blair could lend a hand in that department, who was he to complain? He nodded wearily, murmured a 'Go-get-those- shitheads' and passed out in Blair's favor. Blair checked on his friend once more. Satisfied Rafe was in no immediate danger to the bullet in his chest than to the chill, he concentrated on the situation at hand.


23 minutes 13 seconds. With their thinking only Jim and H in the game, it would give him the element of surprise he needed. Surprise... that word left a quirk of smile on his lips. And while the little bastards were trying to gather their wits back together, Blair could get a few more clean shots before leaving the matter in Jim's hands. "Child's play", Blair muttered under his breath and pointed the gun to the first moving target.


A lady, no more than thirty was his intended aim. Blair recognized her as one of the muscles of this gun-running operation. Heidi Valkroff was her name if Blair remembered her correctly, and she was definitely a *mad* one. Her last handiwork had more holes on him than his favorite pair of jeans. //Now why in heavens is she doing in Cascade? Oops, I forget... We were talking about Cascade right? A psycho-magnet.// Blair grimaced. He swore Cascade was a more dangerous place, than all the notorious places he'd been to. Valkroff would mainly be dealing up on the front and Blair doubted she knew the blacks and whites of the deal. Jim wouldn't need her at all for this case. In other words, she was expendable and one less bloodless murderer the world can do without. Blair's finger tightened delicately on the trigger. The bullet flew straight and true and planted itself squarely in Valkroff's head.


Blair's next eleven shots were based on his assessment of their importance to this case and other material cases, he could think of. //Nothing personal.// Seven shots he fired were lethal while four others he conveniently shot at the knee and the shooting arm. They wouldn't be able to fire very accurately now, not without much pain that is, and even if they cut and run, they wouldn't get very far. Smiling to himself for a job well done, he carefully wiped all traces of his fingerprints on both guns and placed one neatly in Rafe's hand and returned the other to the ankle strap. Everyone was safe, Rafe would be hailed hero, and no one would knew better. Jim probably would, but he bet his next paycheck that Jim's senses would be too fucked up for him to rely on. And if he persisted, there was always Blair's obfuscation to convince him otherwise. //Hey, I got the dance routine tapped to perfection.// Blair chuckled.


19 minutes 56 seconds, his watch showed. The victorious smile gave way to a worried frown. He was slacking and contrary to what people believe, Blair never slacks, especially on the job. Mentally kicking himself for blowing away a good four seconds for patting his own back (and he figured another two seconds for regretting it), he madly dashed out the door into the darkest of nights. He had another appointment to keep and by gods and all the deities in the universe, he was going to keep it.


********************

(Continued in part 5)