A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

(A/N: I'm back, I'm back! Here's my latest installment; I hope you like it – I've finally got the time/energy/inclination to write, so I want to write, write write! You guys are amazingly patient – bless you for it! -- Le Rouret>


The hotel room was very dark and quiet. A square of street light lay crookedly across the bed, teasing Michael's eyes with its asymmetry; through the thick-paned glass he could hear the faint hum of traffic in the square below. The furniture, hulking and shadowy, loomed in the half-light like ungainly monsters, a metal brad here and there throwing back the pale light from the street. A pair of Faramir's pants hung over the back of the chair by the window, lumpy, fretfully mocking the human form. Michael sighed and rolled over. It was two o'clock in the morning and Michael knew he ought to be asleep, but he also knew there was no way in hell he could sleep now.

Gimli and Faramir's redoubled efforts had paid off, and they had found Ahn. He was hiding in a hotel in Barrow-in-Furness, with seven operatives left. A crate of some sort, possibly containing either samples of the virus, or detailed instructions regarding its creation, or computer equipment, or all three, was scheduled to be shipped by sea, labeled simply "fossilized raptor stool," to Nha Trang in Vietnam from Tilbury. From there, it was not entirely certain what Ahn intended to do, but he had certainly booked himself three airfares to Haiphong from Heathrow, so, as Legolas had said, "Looks like 'e's going to scarper, eh?" What the remaining four operatives were doing was unsure until Arwen had burst in earlier that evening, eyes alight, and said triumphantly: "They just bought train tickets to Dover. Bet you anything they'll pick up the ship there."

That had seemed to settle things. They had to go in three directions at once, but bearing in mind there were ten of them, that wasn't much of a difficulty, even taking Legolas' blindness (and Michael and Doris' unwillingness to play James Bond) into consideration. Lottie, Éowyn, and Arwen donned stunningly abbreviated outfits – all legs and limbs and breasts and sequins – and traipsed off with cunningly hidden pistols and switchblades to find the four Dover operatives. Aragorn and Éomer had won the coin toss and gotten Ahn, much to their delight, and Faramir and Gimli's chagrin; Aragorn had said over his shoulder to them, as he and the hulking Éomer exited the hotel: "You guys are better suited to dig through that crate anyway." That was true enough, Michael thought; if there were any sort of scientific or computer-type stuff in that crate, better Faramir and Gimli than a doctor and a field editor for a dirt bike magazine. Aragorn and Éomer had been chuckling as they left, grinning avidly, their eyes alight with a thirst for violence that had been disconcerting to Michael. He was not used to Aragorn acting in that fashion, but, when he voiced his concerns to Faramir, his lover had simply smiled and continued loading his .45.

"Aragorn may be Dr. Walker of Burlington General Hospital now," he'd said, his eyes growing distant with memory. "But bear in mind he's pursued justice for many more years than you and I have known him." Then, with a preoccupied kiss farewell, he and Gimli had taken their leave, heading to the docks, their pockets heavy with firearms.

That left Michael with Doris and Legolas. Normally this wouldn't have been a problem, considering Michael's friendship with Doris and his natural physical attraction to the Alien, but it was unnerving, just sitting and waiting, especially since Legolas could do little but eat chocolates, mutter obscure swear words, and fidget. Michael and Doris tried to play bridge, but found neither of them could concentrate – that, and Legolas kept making rude jokes about the word "rubber" – then attempted to distract themselves by discussing Doris and Gimli's upcoming marriage, but talked themselves into a corner when they realized that Legolas, despite his obvious love for Gimli and friendship with Doris was flatly refusing to give his opinion on the matter. This put them both into such a depression that they gave up, and after watching the news on TV, called it a night. Legolas went to his room, Doris to hers, and Michael to his.

Eleven had passed, then midnight. For some reason Michael had been holding his breath about midnight, hoping something would happen, but to his knowledge nothing did. Certainly there were no phone calls, no emails or IMs, nothing of the sort – a complete dearth of information. Midnight turned to one, then to two, and still he lay there, heart thumping nervously, mind a whirl of hope and fear and apprehension, wishing he weren't an interior designer but a spy or an assassin or something USEFUL. It was so superfluous being an interior designer. In the Grand Scheme of Things, no one really NEEDED an interior designer; it was just someone you hired to rearrange your furniture or pick new colors. Useless.

Michael punched his pillow and rolled over. Speaking of useless, WHY was he still in bed? You'd think after three hours he'd have given up already. Even watching TV, or staring out the window, or giving himself a manicure was preferable. He had just worked himself up to the point that he was about to swing his legs over the edge of the bed when a heavy feeling of languor seemed to fall over him. His knees went soft and his body seemed torpid; the edges of his vision swam. Thinking perhaps sleep had found him at last, Michael relaxed, feeling himself sink into the soft mattress beneath him.

Get up

A confused kaleidoscope of faces, voices crying out in surprise and alarm. A flash of light and the pop, pop, pop of gunfire. Sluggish dark oily water, churning with a sudden splash, and the spray of dark glutinous blood on slick boards. Michael's heart started to pound, and he felt the sting of adrenaline rush through him.

It's a trap. Get up, get up!

The smell of turpentine and rotten fish in his nostrils, and the acrid scent of gun smoke. A rush of fear and the sickening realization that he had failed. Lights reeled and he lost his balance. Michael's legs jerked with the automatic reaction to right himself, and he sat up in bed, panting.

How many lives are you willing to risk?

It was an odd question, and Michael was not entirely certain who had asked it. But enough people had died; why should any more die, who did not deserve it? He thought of the little Hispanic boy in the photo, and the hypothetical Twenty Million Koreans, and decided he was not strong enough to have that on his conscience. "None," he said to the empty room. It echoed a little on the hardwood floor and plaster walls.

The Murderer will sell Sŏndŏk to China. It will be loosed there.

He thought about that, could see the millions upon millions of faces watching him – slant and sloe-eyed, dark, broad faces, serious, anxious, afraid. Then he saw Death, Death in a white mask, striking them down, first the children and the elderly, then the women, then the men. He saw Death running along the rivers, a dark cloak spread out behind him; could see the people fall, see them clutch at their throats, their eyes bulging, their tongues thick and blue. And ever Death ran, striking this way and that; over the choked and polluted cities beneath their haze of smog, through the factories belching smoke into the air, over the slow sparkling rivers, the rolling meads dotted with desert flora, the cold white mountains, the villages huddled in emerald hills. Behind him fell the people, one million, ten million, a hundred million, thoughtlessly slain through random error. Old women with thin gray hair knotted at the backs of their necks, old men, toothless and smiling, the life struck from their black sparkling eyes. Young women, beautiful, withered and destroyed; strong young men, clubbed down in their prime. And he saw children, millions upon millions of children, round-faced, bright-eyed, with rosy laughing mouths, shriveling and fading and dying, their broken-hearted mothers wailing their grief out, until Death too took their breath from them, and the houses were empty. Nothing could stop Sŏndŏk; no antibacterial drug or injection, no vaccine, no ameliorative pill. Sŏndŏk was Death, it was Death in a clear glass vial that shattered in a busy subway train somewhere in Beijing.

"No," said Michael. It was not an option. That could simply not happen. A hundred million people, dead because of Ahn's greed? "No. You have to stop it." He didn't know to whom he was speaking; he had no idea what the unknown voice would do. But he knew Death had to be stopped.

I will stop it, Beloved Dreamer. Get up.

Well, THAT was a mistake. The Valar never did something on their own; they always had to drag the Chosen into it somehow. But really, who else would this Vala ask? Doris? Out of the question. Legolas? Impossible, in his current state. Who else was there?

Just Michael.

Feeling a little sick, Michael got out of bed. He got out of his pajamas and pulled on some clothes – jeans, a shirt, a dark sweater. He was just tying his shoes when it occurred to him to wonder if he had a gun.

"Will I need one?" he asked, a little apprehensively. He hoped he didn't; he hoped all he needed to do was to go somewhere, and flip a switch or something. Please, no shooting, he begged the voice, feeling a little sick to his stomach. He was not brave, not one iota. He could never be brave at two in the morning.

Go to the Listener. He will give you his.

That was not very comforting; Michael remembered Legolas' Glock .45, remembered its powerful kick, and the stiffness in his arms the day after he'd learned to use it. But if this voice told him to get a gun from Legolas, he would. Those hundreds of millions of Chinese innocents would ask little else from him, after all. What were sore arms for a couple of days, compared to all that death? Nothing – nothing at all. Michael picked up his door key from the dresser and let himself out into the hallway.

The chandeliers gave off a sickly yellow light in the dark pre-dawn; everything seemed to glare angrily at him. He was not supposed to be up; he was supposed to be in bed; the flickering bulbs winked at him and he squinted. He walked down the hall to Legolas and Éowyn's room and knocked softly.

The door jerked open precipitately. Legolas must have known Michael was coming. He stood, clad only in his jeans, his long white hand on the lintel, his alabaster face tight with apprehension, eyes gazing sightlessly past him. Michael's heart sank even as he realized he had hoped that, at the last possible instant, Legolas' sight would be restored and Michael could stay home while the Alien did the Dirty Work. No such luck though – Michael wasn't off the hook yet.

"He spoke to you," said Legolas shortly, stepping aside to let Michael in. Michael entered. His hands felt numb and he wasn't sure he could speak coherently.

"Yes," he said. His voice sounded higher than normal.

Legolas stood, his eyes downcast and dark, pale hair swinging round his cheeks. Thin strong fingers twitched at the ends of the empty arms. "I can't help you," he said. His voice was bitter and angry.

"No," said Michael. No need to beat around the bush. "I need your Glock."

"Bugger." Legolas turned, groped around in his dresser until he found it and a few extra clips. He thrust it back at Michael, missing him completely; Michael simply moved in front of him and took the gun and the clips.

"Don't tell Doris," he said. Legolas snorted.

"Do I look daft?" he asked. Then he shook his head, his hair shimmering around his bare shoulders. He was beautiful, this Alien; all long lean sinewy muscle and shining pale skin and silky golden hair. But no sexual or aesthetic titillation touched Michael's heart; he was too scared. It was awful; it was like some high-pitched whine, a constant buzz in his brain; it clouded his vision but at the same time made the most ridiculous things seem to leap out at him. His heart was thumping erratically and he couldn't feel his feet. There was no courage to summon – he was dry, completely empty. He couldn't do it. Why should he do it? He was only Michael, only an interior designer. How could anyone expect him to do anything? Especially involving guns and death and intrigue. Ridiculous.

Legolas reached out to him then, hands blindly fumbling for his face; Michael could feel how cold those long thin fingers were, and realized with mingled relief and consternation that Legolas was afraid, too.

"Michael," said Legolas, his face serious and tense, taut with fear. "You are stronger than you think you are."

That was not what Michael had been expecting him to say – something more along the lines of, "Good luck," or, "I'll send help as soon as I can," or even, "I'll come with you, nothing to worry about" were more what he had been wanting to hear. But Legolas' words seemed to echo in his head, and in tandem he heard his Vala's voice.

You can do more than you think you can.

It wasn't much, but it was enough. Michael nodded, forgetting Legolas couldn't see him, pocketed the gun and left the room.

The elevator ride down to the lobby seemed very long. The red paneled walls glared back the bright nighttime lights, and when the doors opened they seemed unnaturally loud. Hoping not to attract attention, on the off-chance a stray policeman or agent might be watching them, Michael bypassed the concierge's desk and went straight to the front doors, his heart hammering.

"Sir?"

His heart stopped hammering and stood still. Swallowing, feeling a cold trickle worm its way down his spine, Michael turned, assuming an expression of mild surprise. "Yes?"

The night clerk watched him, eyebrows puckered in amazement. "Is there anything you was wanting, sir?" he asked. His chinless face, somewhat blue about the extremities and crowned with a distasteful set of teeth, seemed foolish and thoughtless and harmless, and Michael breathed again. But still his heart hammered, so hard he was sure the clerk could hear it, or perhaps even see it fluttering in his chest.

"No, thank you," said Michael primly. "Just going out for a little fresh air." He could see the look of frank disbelief in the man's face -- in London? he seemed to say – but before the man could question him further Michael pushed the doors open and was out on the street.

"Okay," he said, looking up and down Jermyn Street, at its hum and rumble of late-night traffic and flashing neon lights. "Now what?"

That cab. That one, there.

It was as though his head had been turned on a stalk. Lining the sidewalk were a series of taxis in varying states of disrepute; the Voice seemed to be directing him to a bright yellow one. Taking a deep breath, Michael strode over to it and opened the back door.

The cabbie had obviously been taking a nap; he jerked awake and turned, pushing his hat back up onto his head. He looked very angry. "Wha' thuh fuck?" he said thickly, scratching his armpit and glaring at Michael. "I wuz sleepin' 'ere."

Michael took a deep breath. "I need to get to – " he paused, hoping the inner voice would prompt him. The docks at Tilbury, said the voice, and Michael dutifully repeated: "The docks at Tilbury."

"Eh, fuck off," muttered the cabbie, pushing his hat back down over his eyes and settling back against his seat, his arms folded belligerently across his chest. "Need me shut-eye, I do. Go bollock someone else."

Michael was about to humbly slink from the cab out to the street to find another mode of transportation when a surge of indignation filled him. One hundred million lives on the line, and this … this … JERK wanted a NAP? He took a deep breath and said firmly, "I'm sorry, this is an emergency. You need to take me to Tilbury NOW."

The cabbie turned back around to stare at him through the grate. He seemed relatively young, with a spoiled and petulant face; Michael couldn't be sure, but he thought he could see dark curly hair beneath the greasy cap. " 'Ark at yer now," he said in amazement, his brows beetling angrily. "Yer need this and yer need that? Bloody 'mergency? Get a copper then." He turned away again, more definitively this time, and Michael lost his temper.

"I'm getting tired of telling you what to do," he began hotly, only to become more incensed when the cabbie retorted rudely,

"Then get th' fuck out."

THAT did it. Out came the Glock, pressed into the back of the cabbie's curly head; Michael could see the shoulder's tense, heard the sharp intake of breath. "I'm getting tired of telling you what to do," he repeated, thinking it was a lot harder to speak when one's teeth were gritted than he'd originally supposed. "You are going to drive me to the Tilbury docks. Now."

There was about five seconds of silence, punctuated only with deep, ragged breaths from the cabbie in front of him. Michael wondered how long he'd be put in jail for menacing a taxi driver. "All right then," said the cabbie, his voice tight. The taxi started, and then pulled out into traffic.

They were silent during the drive through town, and when the cabbie exited onto the A13 Michael shifted his hand a little; it was getting stiff. He could see the cabbie watching him in his rear-view mirror, could see the brown worried eyes, the trickle of sweat down the rosy cheeks. He felt a little sorry for the cabbie, but really, with a Vala at your back, you couldn't really say no.

They took the A1089 into Tilbury. It was nearly four in the morning and Michael was starting to feel very sandy-eyed, but he didn't dare move the gun; what if the cabbie suddenly decided to mutiny? When they took the exit into the docks the voice returned.

Tell him to park at the gate of Queen Elizabeth and wait.

"Park at the gate of Queen Elizabeth and wait," Michael repeated dutifully. The cabbie swallowed hard and nodded.

Ten more minutes passed as they left the main roads and followed progressively narrower streets. At last the cab could go no further; there was nothing ahead of them but greasy darkness cut by a single streetlight; all around them were buildings, dark and empty. The cabbie put the taxi into park and sat back.

"How long d'yer want me ter wait?" he asked, his voice subdued.

"I don't know," said Michael, looking around nervously. It reminded him a lot of the docks in Miami; he would have given anything for a couple of nice friendly prostitutes right now, if for nothing else but companionship – it seemed very lonely and empty out there. "But if you want to get paid – and paid a lot – " he shook the gun at the cabbie, who was watching Michael nervously through the rear-view mirror – "you'll sit tight and wait 'til I get back."

"You're the cap'n," said the cabbie flatly. Michael bit his lip and got out of the cab. He half expected the cabbie to put his foot to the floor and take off for the closest constable, but something – the promise of remuneration, perhaps – kept him there, and the cabbie cut the headlights and turned the car off.

Michael pocketed the gun, not liking the thought of running into a bobbie on his beat holding a Glock .45. "All right," he said. "Now what?"

I am Tulkas. I am the Hunter.

The name "Tulkas" meant little to nothing to Michael, but the title "Hunter" explained a good deal. They were hunting Ahn … naturally Tulkas would be concerned. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

Walk to the end of the alley and turn right. Then turn left at the head of the next alley. You will find some containers. Go to the corner of the leftmost container and look around the corner. Try not to make any noise, and try not to be seen.

"All right," said Michael. Glad he'd put on his sneakers and not a hard-soled shoe, he crept down the alley. It was damp and smelled very bad, and the stone pavers were slick with a slimy mold that clung to the soles of his shoes. He hugged the dark shadows, cringing back from the walls at first, but then he firmly told himself this was NOT the time to be squeamish, and pressed up against them, thinking resignedly to himself that he'd effectively ruined a perfectly good Ralph Lauren sweater. At last he reached a huge stack of shipping containers, looming like a poorly-constructed building in front of him. He kept to the left, slipped around a corner, and peered out.

He was right near the edges of the docks. He could hear the water, could smell its detritus, could even catch a glimpse of its oily surface, gleaming slightly in the dimness. There was a truck parked at the dock, and a small boat that looked like a fishing boat of some kind. Michael was reminded of the small lobster boats he had seen in Casco Bay when they were in Maine. He could see a movement there, some men shifting around, and some horrible lump on the ground that looked disturbingly like a dead body. There was a grunt and a muttered curse, and the gleam of light on metal. Michael edged closer, hoping to see more. Who was it? Were they operatives? What were they doing? Then he saw a large crate, and he understood. He could just read the "Raptor Stool, Biohazard" label on it. He squinted. Wasn't there something familiar about the two men with the crate? Then one of them gave a breathless laugh, and he understood. The dead man on the ground was an operative. The two men lifting the crate from the truck were Faramir and Gimli.

Michael's chest felt hot with relief, and his eyes seemed to swim. So that was all there was to it – there was no real danger; Tulkas had just wanted him to help out, that was all. He took a deep breath, preparing to step out from behind the container, but then felt a huge invisible hand thrust him back so hard it knocked out his breath.

IT'S A TRAP!

Three swift pops and flashes of light, a surprised shout, a horrible gurgle and splash. The clatter of feet and another shout, then a terrible laugh. Michael struggled to his feet and rushed around the corner of the container. Gimli was gone, and Faramir stood at bay, facing down three men, all of whom had rifles trained on him. Michael opened his mouth to shout a warning, but then the air was full of light and sound, and Faramir's body jerked with the force of the bullets. Then he fell.

Through the roaring in his ears, all Michael could hear was a man's voice, clipped, giving orders coolly as though nothing had happened. Then Tulkas spoke.

Come along now. The Dreamer becomes the Hunter.

Without thinking Michael raised the Glock. He knew now why he had been blessed with such good aim. His hand was surprisingly steady. At the back of his mind he could hear himself wondering how he could possibly think of killing another human being. He was an interior designer, he wasn't a spy or an assassin. This was not his Place. He couldn't do it.

Then he heard Legolas' voice. You are stronger than you think you are. And he saw the faces of children, of millions of Chinese children, begging him to save them.

He squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession and the three men fell. He stepped around the corner of the container, smelling the smoke, seeing the gleaming light on the sluggish water, the fuzzy and indistinct fluorescent light above them illuminating the grotesque scene. Three men dead, and by his hand. Blood everywhere. And on his back, his face staring blankly at the sky, Faramir. His chest was torn open, and it was dark with blood. Michael could see, out of the corner of his eye, some large thing bobbing listlessly in the water, face down: Gimli, his long grizzled hair fanned out over the surface of the water. Michael knew that if the sun were up he would be able to see the bloom of blood there, too.

Take care now, Beloved Hunter. Your prey still breathes.

There was a movement at the back of the truck, a man stepping cautiously down the steps to the dock. A small oriental man stood there, contemplating Michael with a clinical curiosity; in his hands was a keychain and a cell phone. His face was smooth, hairless and without wrinkles, but the hair at the temples was graying in the glossy blackness. Then he gave a humorless smile, and Michael's heart, already worn out from the constant hammering, turned over with new fear.

Ahn.