BK R3: And Then You Die Pt3

He could feel the cold settling in his heart. It was the embodiment of bleak, freezing hopelessness, and it numbed him, body and soul.

For the second time, Orien found himself to be a stranger in his own body.

"Orien?" Elijah gasped, his voice hoarse. He wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with violently trembling hands. "Can you hear me?"

The man didn't respond. He remained slumped against the side of the car, wide-eyed and unblinking, as rain plastered down his pale hair.

Hesitantly, Elijah reached out and shook Orien's shoulder. "Are you okay?" The question was ridiculous, there was a piece of shadow in him, he could be broken or dying or—

"Don't touch me."

"I…what?"

"I said, don't touch me," Orien growled. He blinked and focused on Elijah with a great deal of difficulty, as though through a haze of exhaustion or inebriation. He pressed a hand against the sudden burning in his forehead.

"You—the shadow!" Elijah sputtered frantically. "The shadow just went into you--"

"Oh, really?" Orien snapped, rising. He had a vague notion that he ought to be worried, but it was quickly overshadowed by a much clearer desire to punch something. In fact, he rather believed he'd like to engage in something more satisfying than a punch.

The alley.

"Where are you going? We need to get help or something; maybe Patrick knows?" Elijah failed miserably at pulling himself up and slumped back against the car as Orien wandered away. Had he caught sight of something in the parking lot beyond the alley? What the hell was he doing? "Orien!"

As he stumbled through the rain, Orien became aware of just how irritating Elijah's voice was. For that matter, everything about the other man grated. His smile and enthusiasm, whether forced or genuine, his concern, his face, his stupidity, and now how, in the worst headache Orien had ever experienced, he would simply not shut up. His fists clenched.

He could fix that. He could shut him up.

"Orien?" Elijah tried desperately once more.

He picked up a rock.

Orien turned slowly with that same unsteady focus, and this time with an unsteady smile to match. The chunk of concrete felt wonderful in his hand; heavy and solid and jagged at the edge.

"Orien?" Elijah's voice faltered as he watched him uneasily. "What are you doing?"

He closed the gap between them in three strides. "Do you ever stop with the fucking questions?" he snarled, and on the last word his new weapon swung down.

Elijah cried out and, hadn't he scrambled to the left a moment sooner, the concrete would likely have dented his skull rather than the door of his car. He picked himself up and stumbled back gracelessly as Orien advanced upon him.

"Holy shit!" he cried eloquently. "Holy shit, Orien, I'm your friend!"

The doctor simply laughed. How hadn't he realized before? It was so plain to see how much nicer everything would be without all these other damned people, and that was a problem he could solve. The other man's eyes cast about wildly, searching for another soul on the streets to come to his aid, but it was the middle of a rainy workday downtown. They were quite alone, and would remain so long enough for Orien to take care of this.

His vague smile slowly grew. Elijah was still unsteady, barely on his feet. That would make it much easier.

He lashed out again, and this time connected with Elijah's shoulder. He cried out loudly in what might have been a comically high pitch any other time before slipping and smashing down hard.

Orien dropped to his knees and with his unoccupied hand, grabbed Elijah by his black tie and jerked him forward. He felt as though there ought to be something witty said, something snarky and cruel just before the end, but nothing came to mind. Orien hadn't the patience to wait for inspiration anyway, he felt practically giddy with bloodlust.

"Don't," Elijah gasped, his hoarse voice barely above a whisper. "Oh god, don't."

In that moment, all he could see was Jess.

Alone.

Sometimes, all it took was a struggle for your life with a gleeful and murderous new friend to remember what was really important.

He really ought to call her back.

Orien raised the hunk of cement and paused, and Elijah found inspiration. An instant later, Elijah's shoe found Orien's groin.

The doctor keeled over in pain and his weapon thudded to the slick sidewalk below. Elijah slammed against him with his uninjured shoulder, and Orien, fueled by the fury understood only by men, grabbed him by the throat.

Elijah wrenched back fruitlessly; Orien's hands remained steadfastly locked around his neck and Orien easily turned them over so that he knelt above Elijah. The reporter quite calmly realized that if he didn't act in the next few moments, he would panic from lack of oxygen and die. And what was it that he told Jess? Everything could be worse. It was simply a matter of perspective.

And from Elijah's perspective, it appeared that the hunk of cement found itself in his hands.

He jerked it up, aiming to smash it against Orien's arm, but instead opened up a long gash from the jagged edge.

The results were instantaneous.

Blackness poured forth from the wound, a sudden hot stream of liquid night, and splashed to the ground. It hit the sidewalk beside Elijah's face as Orien's hands recoiled. The former scrambled up and away from his attacker.

Orien stared at his hands in utter bemusement. "I…was I just--"

"You just tried to kill me!" Elijah shrieked in disbelief.

Orien, still on his knees over Elijah, stared down to where the shadow had crumbled away. "No," he whispered. "The shadow."

It took him only a moment. "Oh my god," Elijah murmured. "That shadow was controlling you."

"Shit," Orien said quite simply. "We need to get back to A Likely Story. Now."

And without even apologizing, he bolted for the car.





The best thing to hear after coming back from possession by a shadow certainly wasn't, "Orien, Sean just tried to kill Patrick, they're all freezing, and your friend has a fucking knife!"

"Oh, that's not good," Elijah remarked dazedly.

"Fuck!" Orien raced past Elizabeth and the yowling cat into the store, nearly knocking over a bookcase in his rush.

It was exactly as Elizabeth had said. Patrick supported himself against a shelf as he attempted to gently talk down Oracle through chattering teeth. Oracle advanced upon a terrified Ophelia, and the kid hunched motionlessly over a bleeding arm in the corner.

"Oracle!" he cried, sprinting through the shelves. "Oracle, you need to give me the knife."

From her lack of response, it was as though she hadn't even noticed his presence. Her hazel eyes remained fixed on the sobbing Ophelia as she backed slowly away. He'd seen her in this state before, when she was like a bloodhound that had caught a scent. She'd cut Orien himself before she'd back down.

"Oracle, listen to me, there isn't time for this!" He shoved a yielding Patrick away as he reached the girl. "Oracle!"

She shook her head.

"Dammit, Oracle!" After a moment of indecision, he grabbed her shoulder and spun her around to face him. The curved blade in her hand whispered through the air and ended its arc too close to his chest for comfort. "Oracle, I know what you're trying to do. I get it. I can take it from here. Give me the knife."

"They're sick," she hissed furiously, stepping back and throwing his hand off of her.

For a moment, Orien appeared ready to scream again. There was no time. Hawklike eyes fixed on him as his fists balled with frustration. They're sick, she said, of course they were sick. The same shadow-sickness was back, but he could save them all this time around. He knew what to do, he knew how to fix them, and she needed to give him the damn knife before it was too late and he couldn't remove the sickness anymore—

He stopped.

Sick.

Orien found that it was easy enough to remember, but much harder to understand, that Oracle herself was sick, too.

Whatever she was doing, it was what she thought was best.

She had to cope somehow, just like everyone else.

"I need you to work with me," Orien said, his voice suddenly soft. "You did great, Oracle. Now I need to make sure that this is done with as little damage as possible, because it may not be safe to go to the hospital. So please, give me the knife."

Oracle sized him up, straight-backed and unyielding, her face smooth and blank. It was impossible to gather her thoughts from behind the veil of red hair, and for a long moment, she seemed to be on the verge of refusal. Then, slowly, she nodded once and held out the blade.

Orien was immediately uncompromising efficiency once more. "Hand sanitizer," he snapped, taking the knife. "We need to sterilize this fast, and hand sanitizer and rubbing alcohol will be our best bets. I don't have enough, so I need whatever you have." Already he was pulling a small plastic red bag emblazoned with a white cross out of the pocket of his jacket. As Elizabeth bustled out (and nearly trod over a pacing Flynn), he ripped open packages of hand wipes to clean off the blade.

"Is this really sanitary?" Ophelia managed weakly.

"Close enough to it," Orien replied, pushing back the sleeve of her hoodie. "Let's see your arm."

Oracle silently made her way out into the shop once more. She felt naked without the blade and clutched at the hem of her shirt to occupy her empty hands. She didn't have to give him the blade. She could have done it herself, what did more blood and pain matter, anyway? There was enough in the world that a bit more by her hand would make no difference.

For a while, as Orien cut the darkness out of these new people with the skill of a surgeon, she watched the rain. He'd figured it out on his own, and the suspicion had solidified when he'd found a bleeding Sean and Oracle ready to slit Ophelia's arm as well.

And finally, to nobody at all, she answered, "Because I wanted to."