Dust to Dust

How was he supposed to live with this? How was he supposed to live with himself?

She had always been there for him, the rock of his existence, the anchor of his soul. No matter how ugly or uncertain or utterly meaningless the world around him had become, he had known that he could come home to her and she would take him in her arms and assure him that everything would be alright. In his head, he had known that was not true, but when she held him close, in his heart he had believed it.

And now she was gone. How was he supposed to go on without her?

He knew it was his fault. Oh, the doctors had had some 5 pound word for it. Carcinoma something or the other. But he knew better. He knew that years of taking all of the cares and pressures and worries from his shoulders and carrying them on her own had finally taken their toll.

"Ashes to ashes..."

How was he supposed to sit here and listen to this?

"Dust to dust..."

Before he even knew what he was doing, he found himself struggling unsteadily to his feet. He felt a hand on his arm, trying to steady him, and looked down to see Chris looking up uncertainly. Chris, with is puppy dog look, staring up at him just like a faithful dog wanting to comfort its master and not knowing how. He shook his hand away, mumbling that he was alright and just needed some air. Nevermind that they were already outdoors. He just needed to get away. He lurched away from the group gathered around the grave and stumbled across the grass towards his car.

His beloved Cortina. Even if everything else in his life had turned upside down, at least it was still there for him. He wedged his bulk behind the wheel and started the car.

It was the last thing he remembered doing before he woke up in hospital.

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He blinked slightly at the bright white light, uncertain of where he was or what was happening. He could hear faint voices whispering nearby without understanding the words. He turned his head slightly, slowly, carefully, not wanting to increase the screaming pain in his head but overcome by curiosity. He could see a small table next to the bed in which he was lying, but it seemed at the same time as if it were a million miles away. There was a small green plant in a plastic pot sitting on the tabletop, and even from this distance he could easily read Phyllis' name written in her large, commanding hand on the card stuck in the dirt beneath the greenery. Next to the pot, there was a gaudy postcard proclaiming "Greetings from Mexico." That would be Sam and Annie on their honeymoon. They had left over two months ago, and had not yet heard the news. Chris had faithfully brought Gene's post in every day when he visited, and he had kept a silent vigil next to the hospital bed every evening now for weeks. He didn't know what else to do with himself.

Gene's stealthy gaze now fell on Chris, sitting in an uncomfortable chair near the foot of the bed, trying hard to whisper quietly to Ray about the results of the day's tests. He was being, Gene thought, about as quiet as a cat in heat. For some reason, the random thought amused him, and he laughed slightly in spite of the splitting pain that resulted. At the foot of the bed, Chris and Ray started up like pheasants at the noise, then Ray bolted for the door to find the nearest nurse. "You're awake!" Chris enthused, much too loudly for Gene's comfort.

"Still as observant as ever," Gene mumbled, and Chris smiled to hear that the Guv was at least partially back to his old self.

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"I'm not going to tell him, you tell him."

"No way am I telling him."

"Well, someone has to tell him. He can't just find out for himself."

Despite the fussing of the doctors and nurses around him, Gene could clearly hear the argument taking place in the hallway. What exactly was it that he needed to hear so badly and that no one was willing to share? When he had finally had enough, he waved away the nurse trying to take his blood pressure with a growling expletive that made the young woman blush. "Now, Mr. Hunt," the doctor said severely, "there's no need for that kind of language towards the nursing staff!"

"Then tell them to leave me the..." but a stern glare from the doctor cut him off in mid-sentence. That and a rather wicked looking needle that he held up in Gene's face. He decided to change the subject quickly. "What's all that noise in the hallway, anyway? What aren't they telling me? What am I doing in here at all?"

The doctor gave him a disapproving look, thought about it for a moment and finally opted to answer the questions rather than administer the jab. "You, Mr. Hunt, are here because you got falling down drunk and wrapped your vehicle around a telephone pole."

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Now what was he supposed to do?

His car had been his independence, his identity, practically his manhood. It was not a question of replacing it. Nothing could replace it. What would the Lone Ranger have been without Silver? You certainly wouldn't have caught him going around yelling "Hi, Ho, Ginger!" or somesuch nonesense.

It was as irreplaceable as...she was.

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"What's wrong, Gene, luv?"

He punched the pillow sharply in a vain attempt to reshape it into a more comfortable blob. "Nothing," he answered sharply.

"I can tell."

He threw his head back hard on the pillow and winced at the resulting pain. When he tried to stay awake, all he could do was think of her. If he fell asleep, he dreamed of her. He couldn't go back to work yet, but there was nothing to do but rattle around the place like an old age pensioner. He gave the pillow another punch for good measure, then turned over and reached out to touch her, but his hand fell on the empty bed beside him. Too many memories.

He had to get out of this bed, this room, this house. Out of this city, with all of the memories.

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Gene stood outside of a building that would have passed for a rather poor version of a warehouse in his day. Apparently this was the type of place that the current generation looked upon as desirable , or even 'cool.' He had been told that this 'club' was where he could find Chris tonight. He shook his head at the thought that any of his officers might even consider entering such a place for a reason other than banging up a few drug-addled lowlifes. But after a few minutes of soul-searching deliberation, he finally brought himself to open the door and enter what seemed to him to be the gaping maw of hell.

It was not the blast of smoke or the overwhelming smell of booze that bothered him. That was almost comforting! No, it was the incessant throbbing, the pounding of the music in his chest, the flashing lights, the crush of bodies moving frantically. He wasn't even sure he would see Chris if he were standing next to him, or be able to talk to him if and when he found him. He stood for a minute, considering a strategic retreat, but suddenly there was a lull in the music, and he could see Chris across the room waving to him, calling him over to join him.

Gene pushed his way roughly through the crowd, determined to go through with his purpose for coming and then leave as quickly as possible, when the music resumed. An irritating electronic beat flooded out of the speakers, causing even more revilers to push their way onto the dance floor. The heat of the lights and the mass of dancers rose up and hit him as hard as an actual punch in the gut. He suddenly felt dizzy and light headed. Strangely, the calm voice of the singer intruded on his thoughts.

"...how do I feel, tell me now, how do I feel?"

He finally reached the far side of the dance floor and caught hold of the edge of a table, nearly knocking it over. Chris reached out and caught his arm. "You alright, Guv?"

"...if it weren't for your misfortune, I'd be a heavenly person today..."

Gene shook his head. "No, no, I'm not alright, Chris. I don't think I ever will be again." Chris stared up at his without comprehension.

"I'm leaving here, Chris. I can't stay here any longer. Can't stand it. An old friend of mine has offered me a job down in London, and I'm going to take it. I just wanted you to know I'm leaving."

"...how does it feel when your heart grows cold?"

Intermission

Annie looked down from the window of the apartment on the street below. The view was not so overwhelming as the fact that she knew where she was standing, knew where she *had been* standing; the knowledge that they were the same place, separated by decades of time for some people, but less than a year for her, was enough to make her almost physically ill. She wondered if it was something a person could become used to.

She could hear Sam rummaging in the next room. He had left her side the instant they had materialized in this place. Perhaps he didn't feel like explaining anything to her just yet. Perhaps he too was overwhelmed to be back in this place that he thought he would never see again. For her, this was merely an almost impossible place. She wondered what kind of emotions it held for him.

Annie turned away from the window and surveyed the rest of the apartment. It was everything that Sam's flat in 1973 was not; sleek, modern, uncluttered, shiny, it seemed almost as if it were not even lived in. Perhaps he spent so much time working in this time that he didn't think of this place as home at all. Perhaps he never did really live here.

She bent down to examine the sole decoration in the living room, a small framed photo of Sam with a dark-haired young woman. As she was wondering if this was perhaps 'Maya,' she suddenly realized that the sounds from the next room had ceased. She turned around to locate Sam and found him standing still in doorway, staring at her in a faraway manner. Straightening up abruptly, she stepped away from the photo, hoping that he hadn't seen her looking at it.

"Nice place you have here," was all she could think to say.

"You saved my life, you know."

"What?"

"You saved my life. That day on the roof."

"It was only the right thing to do. I couldn't just stand there and let you jump." She suddenly felt awkward. It didn't seem right to her to be talking to Sam about this. She began to turn away, but Sam stepped towards her urgently, taking one hand in his and turning her back to face him.

"No, that's not what I mean. If I had jumped, my transporter would have activated anyway. And I would have ended up...I don't really know for sure where or when I would have ended up. Maybe back here, or maybe back at base. I don't know, but that's not the point. Annie, I wanted to be a policeman because I wanted to help...people. I thought I could make a difference in the lives of families, of children. And I joined this program when I had the chance because it seemed as if..." His voice trailed off, the look in his eyes betraying the emotions he had been fighting to keep in. He shook his head and his eyes cleared.

"But somewhere along the line, it became just a job. Just a series of names and dates and facts. I was bouncing around from place to place without really going anywhere. I lost sight of what I was doing and why I was doing it." He dropped her hand. "I was tired of the life I was living, but I didn't want to die. And then I found you. You reminded of what was important, of why I wanted to do this job in the first place. You gave me a reason to live." He brushed her cheek lightly with his hand. "How can I ever thank you for that?" Then he turned away and added angrily, "Why did I bring you here?"

"We came here to find some answers. So let's find them. If that can let you leave this place in peace, that's all the thanks I need."

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She remembered now why she had stopped working in the field. It was this direct interaction with other people, these complicated social customs, the messy emotions, the sheer untidiness of it all that had finally driven her from the front lines to behind a computer terminal. She liked to keep herself and her relations with other people under control, that was why she had opted to be a Controller, for heaven's sake! So what was she doing here, face down on a table in a pub, head aching, as she listened to these inebriated neanderthals droning on about a woman's place? She was not drunk, far from it, for she had only ingested one of the noxious brews that Nelson was handing out. But since she was not in the habit of partaking of any intoxicating beverages under normal circumstances, merely one had had been enough to induce a distinct feeling of discomfort. She was not in control of the situation, and she didn't like it one bit.

She held her head up slightly to see if there might be any way she could slip out of her seat unnoticed, but Ray, who had been going on loudly to Chris about something or other, suddenly turned to her with an intense stare. "And what I want to know, is..." He stopped awkwardly in mid-question and leaned closer to her face. "What did you say your name was again?"

That flustered her. Her name? She hadn't gone by any name for so long she wasn't even sure if she remembered it herself. But in her semi-smashed state, she blurted out the first thing that came to her mind, "I don't have a name, I am the Controller!"

Ray jerked his head unsteadily towards Chris. "She what?"

Chris strained to gather his concentration, and after considerable effort finally offered blearily, "Connie? I think?"

Ray turned his gaze back to her and continued his tirade, "Right, Connie, what I want to know is this, who were you talking to back at the station earlier? Him or me?" And he pointed an unsteady finger at Gene, who was gently gliding towards the floor even as they spoke.

The controller was confused. "What on earth are you on about?"

He leaned even closer. "Who were you talking to when you said 'pretty boy' earlier?"

Oh, that. Perhaps it was the lack of practice with social skills, or maybe it was the influence of the 120 proof alcohol, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from saying it. "I was talking to you," and she leaned over and gazed into those eyes. "And what's more, I might even consider kissing you if I thought I could find your mouth amongst all that foliage."

Not Ninja Style

Chris was nervous.

It was not so much the court appearance itself that had unnerved him. He had simply stood up and plainly stated what he had seen. He had told the truth, and that was nothing to worry over.

It was the look in the gangster's eyes, the cold stare that followed him down from the witness box, his face an expressionless mask, that had bothered Chris. He had not shouted or cursed him or hurled threats at him. He had not said a word. And that was perhaps the most frightening thing he could have done.

What, Chris wondered, did he have planned? For him to sit there like that, so calm, so confident, it had to have meant that he felt in complete control of the situation. The doubts plague Chris' mind all day. He nearly jumped out of his skin every time the telephone rang, and an innocent slap on the back from one of his fellow detectives had sent him scampering to the gents, barely holding back the urge to heave up. He wondered how he was ever going to survive the walk home.

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It was not a long walk from CID to his parents' house, nor was the neighborhood a seedy one, but the route Chris usually took generally involved a few shortcuts through some back yards and at least one alleyway. He stood uncertainly at the top of the alley, torn between taking the shortcut, getting him safely home that much quicker, and sticking to the well lit street, which would take longer and expose him to more strangers. As he tried to make a decision, he suddenly had the feeling that someone was watching him.

"Who's there?" he called out, his voice cracking despite his best effort to sound unafraid. He took a step backwards, ready to flee the scene, but suddenly he felt a hand on his arm. A short, dark-haired man dressed in black with a wicked looking curved sword strapped to his back regarded him from the half shadow of the alley's edge.

The stranger seemed to be deciding whether or not to answer Chris' question, when a rush of pounding feet from the opposite end of the alleyway made up his mind for him. In a heavy Japanese accent, he told Chris, without any hint of sarcasm, "My name is Hiro Nakamura, and I have come to save your life."

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By the time Chris regained consciousness, the brief but intense fight was already over. He gawked up at Hiro from the ground and asked the only question he could think of. "Are you a ninja?"

Hiro gave him a look of consternation as he sheathed his sword. "Ninja? No, not Ninjutsu, Battōjutsu."

Chris shook his head without comprehension as he stumbled to his feet. Looking around the alley at the fallen thugs who had been waiting in ambush, he gestured and asked helplessly, "But, why?"

Hiro clapped a hand on Chris' shoulder and looked at him earnestly. "Chris Skelton, you are a good cop. Soon, you will be a great one. That's all I can say." And before Chris could answer, Hiro was gone.

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Sam surveyed the scene in the alley grimly. "Tell me again what happened, Chris."

Chris shook his head vaguely. "I was just walking and suddenly this man jumped out from behind the bins. That's all I remember."

"So you're telling me that one person fought off five hired killers with what appears to be a large knife?" He examined the vicious stab wounds in one of the bodies. "So what, are we looking at ninjas again, Chris?"

"Oh, no, boss," Chris answered before he could stop himself. "Not ninja style."