A Few Key Sunnydale Alum

Leland looks away, and his voice drops low in something that might be anger, or might be shame.

"He laughed. Said I'd better figure out a way. And if I couldn't figure out a way, maybe I just needed to boost my brain a little more. Or boost his, and he'd figure it out for me." His mouth twists. "Mark was always making cracks like that....

"You didn't know Mark. He's just a job to you guys. I knew him. He was ... he was driven, you know? Nothing ever came fast enough for him. Some guys, some of the guys I sell to, they only take the bare minimum to give themselves the edge. Take some right before the test and then don't come back until the first warning signs show up. But Mark always took the max dose I'd sell him, at the shortest intervals. He probably wouldn't've run out of money this soon if he'd been taking it easy, pacing himself, but ... that was Mark. He was always like that. Always had to have more."

Leland's eyes have gone distant. "So I guess I gave him what he really wanted, you know?"

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The room is dark, silent. Jeff's room, abandoned for the night. Claire sits on his bed, huddled and shivering and pressing her hands to her mouth to keep from making the slightest sound.

She tries to breathe as tremors go through her, tries not to breathe too fast, too shallow. Her worst fears are coming true.

It's all Leland's fault. She can't blame Mark, Mark's dead, Mark loved her, and Leland killed him.

Leland killed him. Leland killed him, and it's all her fault. It's all her fault...

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"No, you didn't." That's almost sympathetic. "Mark never wanted to die, Leland."

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"He did it to himself."

Harsh and bitter, and desperately defensive.

"He didn't leave me any choice."

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Andrew's lips go white.

"You had a choice," he says, low and deadly. "You chose to do this. You chose."

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"There's always a choice." Jonathan's voice is low, almost to a whisper. "I learned that one a long time ago."

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"Is that it?" His face is drawn now, and wearing that bitter smile again. "Are we done here? 'Cause right now I don't see how you figure to 'make it stop'."

(He doesn't actually mime airquotes around Jonathan's words, but they're audible anyway.)

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"However we have to."

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"You shut me down and that leaves all my customers without a supplier."

That bravado is back, making the words something close to a taunt.

"And every one of them goes Flowers for Algernon and dies when their current dose wears off. That's gonna be on your hands."

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He did it to himself.

He didn't leave me any choice.

Everyone will die.

Inside Claire's chest, her heart speeds, set on anarchy, and she can't stifle the sob wrenching its way up her throat. Her stomach turns, and pure instinct sends her bolting from the bed and into Jeff's bathroom.

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His head jerks up at the noise.

"There's someone else here."

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"There's nobody here but us, Leland --"

Except he's got a sinking suspicion that isn't true, because Claire knew where they were going to be tonight.

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Jonathan moves between Leland and the connecting door, because whoever's in there, there's as much chance they're innocent as not.

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Except Leland sees the movement and shifts suddenly in the chair, bringing up a hand from behind his back. The light from the computer screen reflects sharply off dark metal, outlining the shape of the pistol and its silencer as he levels it at Jonathan.

"You're gonna want to stop moving right about now." His level tone is belied by the flick of his eyes from Andrew to Jonathan to the door and back, and by the sheen of sweat on his temple reflecting the light of the screen.

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And Jonathan freezes, all too aware of the gun.

"You don't want to do that, Leland."

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Andrew slowly raises his hands to shoulder height, and steps back and to one side.

Between Jonathan and the gun.

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"Okay. Okay, here's how it's gonna play." There's the tiniest, tiniest unsteadiness to Leland's voice, like the tremor that presages an earthquake.

"Whoever's in there. Tell them to back off."

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"Whoever's in there, Leland", Jonathan says, trying not to let his own voice tremble, "we didn't put them there."

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"Shut up," he snaps, and jabs the gun forward for emphasis. "We're all going to walk out of here, together. And then..."

He trails off, and behind the gun his face looks white and sick.

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Almost gently: "And then what, Leland?"

There's a short silence.

"You don't know, do you. You've got no way out of this." Andrew's voice is low and steady. "One way or another, this ends for you tonight. But you can still --"

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"Shut UP!" Leland shouts, his voice cracking.

And fires.

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The bullet hits him high in one shoulder, slamming him back and into the milk-crate bookcase. Books tumble and thump to the floor around him, making more noise than the sound of the silenced pistol.

Leland's eyes are as wide and shocked as his own must be. The pain's astonishing, incredible; there can't possibly be enough room inside him for all of it. Pulsing out from the sledgehammer blow of the impact in slow liquid waves, any moment now it'll overflow and spill out of him.

Like all that blood, softly pattering down from somewhere.

Oh, Andrew realizes, as very far away he feels himself slide to the floor. Oh, hey.

We've been here before, haven't we.

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"Andrew!" It's panicked, terrified, just from the sight of the blood before he even gets a closer look, and Jonathan forgets all about Leland and drops to his knees at Andrew's side.

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Inside Jeff's room, Claire does a jarred double-take in the direction of all the noise. Two things become very clear to her now, one being that she feels as cold as the slightly damp plastic floor under her legs. The other is that whatever just happened, it is bad.

Her chest tightens painfully with fear, and she rises slowly. Her hand shakes against the porcelain sink. Her knees feel like jelly.

Wells is hurt. Dead?

She can't move, frozen stiff from the fear and nausea. What happens now?

Edited Date: 2008-09-28 08:41 pm (UTC)

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