FIC: Fight From The Inside 1/?

[dollarformyname]

Story Title: Fight From The Inside
Author: dollarformyname
Fandoms: Supernatural/Buffy/Angel/Dark Angel
Pairings: Sam/Jess, Connor/Dawn possibly others (romance not really the focus here, though)
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence. Slightly disturbing treatment of tiny little X-5s. Minor character deaths very likely. Language.
Timeline/Spoilers: Ats: post Not Fade Away; BtVS: post Chosen; SPN: pre-series; DA: pre-series. It's around May of 2005 if that helps.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not for profit. Story title from Queen's Fight From The Inside. Chapter titles from Pink Floyd's The Final Cut. No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: Demons, hunters, superpeople, genetically-engineered soldiers, and a college campus. Throw in some firearms and this is how it goes down.

A/N: Holy crap, I'm finally dipping into the Dark Angel fandom and of course my first order of business is to jack canon all up. Whee! Concrit is welcome, as I'm still fairly new to the characters.

"Who knows where thoughts come from? They just appear." ~Lucas, Empire Records

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Prologue

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Sam is seeking shelter when it happens.

The encroaching summer heat is the worst right now, a creeping thing that seeps into his pores and sends sizzling tendrils along his nerve endings. He's walking as quickly as his rebelling body will allow, the bright shards of sunlight slicing at his vision as he does his damnedest to coax his brain into retracting its claws. He's got a fist jammed uselessly against one temple, head bowed low and his hair cascading down like a futile awning, his eyes narrowed to the barest slits to allow a minimal amount of the bright world into his vision for navigational purposes. The quad he's just left is all freshly-mowed sweet green smells that go straight to his roiling gut, the sidewalk bustling loud with scuffing feet and chattering crowds.

It's not the first debilitating headache he's ever had, but it's the first one since he left Dad and Dean, and he'd secretly hoped they were gone for good, just some random side effect of his unhappy psyche when life was all about the hunt and constant movement. He wants nothing more than to reach his shithole of an apartment with its stealthy mold and cracked walls and blessedly dim lighting and rattling but somehow soothing ceiling fan, collapse onto his mattress face-first until his head seals itself up again. Jess has a full day of classes, so he won't have to worry about worrying her, hopes the bastard woodpecker in his brain will have flown off for more fulfilling pursuits by then.

He cuts across a parking lot and aims loosely for the waterfall sounds of traffic, everything in high, painful color that smudges clean lines into blurry edges. The asphalt is shimmering under his shuffling sneakers, his backpack slung over one shoulder like a thousand pound cross that needs bearing across the desert. He hisses at the blinding reflection of sun bouncing off the white paint of a sports car as he passes it, and suddenly a sharp, deafening staccato of firecrackers splits the air and the pain spikes to unbearable heights that threatens to send him into the black.

Sam thinks briefly, distantly, Who the hell is lighting firecrackers in the parking lot; it's not even July yet, just before the giant cracking sounds multiply and invite screaming friends onto the scene. His head is going to break wide open, he knows it, he feels it, he groans it as he crashes to his knees between parked aluminum beasts with his huge hands clutching at his face to keep it from flying off, something hard and hot slamming into his shoulder a split second later that ignites from the inside and sets his whole left arm ablaze.

Sam face-plants, cheek cracking hard and bright against the steaming tarmac, glowing spots dancing in his vision as something huge and warm and wet slithers beneath him. He tries to reconcile how he went from vertical to horizontal so quickly, catches the fuzzy shape of tiny little army boots clapping across the ground and heading straight for him, a baby fist clenched around a very adult-sized rifle.

Sam thinks, That can't be right, and then his brain calls for intermission and drops the curtains.

It's not until much later that he'll latch onto a pattern and start to realize the thought-splintering fissure in his skull is some early warning system for freaky shit about to impose upon his personal boundaries.

-:-

Connor is loading up his car with his recently acquired spoils outside the campus library when the first shots ring out.

The heat is killer today, his shirt already running damp and his skin sheening brightly only five minutes after stepping out from the cool sanctuary of the library. The parking lot is a sea of light glinting off hot metal, and he squints against it, quickly chucking his summer's reading material into the backseat of his beat-up Camaro, eager to take refuge inside and push the temperamental a/c to its limits.

Classes are churning out their last breaths and lengthy dying wishes as the summer ushers in its smeltering academic reprieve, professors piling on lists of recommended study as they go through the final motions of lectures that aren't really lectures so much as wasting time with tic-tac-toe on the overhead projector because everyone's already gone on vacation even if their bodies are still required to park in the seats for that last leg of the race. Students are milling and strolling and happy, some already free of the the lingering clutches of attendance, some with only one or two more obligatory sessions to go.

Connor had his last jam-packed day of classes yesterday, and he's glad to have it over with for a little while. He slams the back door shut and drops behind the wheel, heated vinyl scalding through the thin material of his t-shirt as he fumbles his keys into the ignition and gets the air blasting. He waits a few minutes for the interior to cool before he'll brave sticking his unprotected hands onto the burning steering wheel, scans the crowds through the windshield idly.

His last scholastic errands over and done, the rest of his day is going to be a lazy one, he muses. Quiet time in his tiny efficiency apartment and lots of brain rest, no thinking allowed. He supposes he'll spend a good majority of the summer break imposing on Angel and the Reillys in equal doses, good for that freak-of-nature/normal-guy equilibrium, but that's not the immediate future, and doesn't bear much deliberation, because did he mention the no thinking rule?

He's drumming absently at his thighs when a huge shadow slips across his lap, attention called to the miserable-looking guy as tall as one the surrounding redwoods as he stutters by the passenger side of his car. He looks like he's holding his head up with a fist, mouth a white slash across his face. Connor frowns as the guy falters, startles when gunfire bursts across the unassuming day.

Redwood Guy drops like a sack of bricks and Connor scrambles, more rapid cracking from every direction as students shriek and and dive and scatter, some falling to avoid being hit and some falling too late to avoid anything. His heart finds a rhythm to match the erratic beats of detonated bullets as he ducks low and spills out onto the ground on his hands and knees. The hot air is suddenly thick with the scent of spraying copper, and he hears the heavy thuds of footsteps approaching, quickly skitters around the Camaro to check on the nearest victim.

The guy is lying face-down in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood, and there's a child, no more than five or six years old by the looks of her, shaved head and huge dispassionate brown eyes and a large firearm in her grip, streaking toward him. Connor stretches up to his knees-as high as he's willing to go with the bullets still flying around-hovers over the prone form and bares his teeth at her as soon as the stench of something not right hits his senses.

She stops cold, stiff and feral, too aware and calculating for someone so young. He sees her sniff the air, eyes going harder as she flicks them between him and her apparent target, then takes off running back the way she came. She's fast, a blur of motion that fades into the panicking crowd like steam in the open air.

Connor isn't going to lie. He's immensely relieved that she heeded the klaxon of warning in his posture instead of shooting some more. He doesn't know what the hell's going on, but that's not something he's going to figure out kneeling here in some stranger's blood. Connor can hear his heartbeat, slow and strong, quickly assesses the shoulder wound and decides he's going to have to risk moving him, not eager to administer aid under fire if he can help it.

Glancing behind him, he determines the straight shot to the library is clear, wrestles with the giant bleeding man and tosses him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, runs low and swift in through the double doors.

There are more people bleeding out and moaning for help outside, but Connor's in no position to assist because one, he's not bulletproof, and two, he doesn't miss the sudden outbreak of heavily-armed children in military garb popping out into the open from various hidey holes just before he clears the threshold.

-:-

Jess is skipping classes for the rest of the day. She feels she deserves the break, considering she's just been accosted.

She's sitting inside one of the campus coffee shops among the pervading aroma of java beans and baked goods, hushed conversations and excited chatter emitting from the surrounding booths and tables, the shuffle-shake and whirs of orders being processed, vanilla latte sitting unappreciated on the laminate surface before her.

Her eyes are glazed over with disbelief as she processes the fact that her bright, promising future has just been unceremoniously painted over with a dark, violent destiny. The blue eyes staring back at her from across the booth are sympathetic but in no way kidding.

Jess opens her mouth to say something, but her jaw gets stuck and just kind of hangs there, gaping and empty of speech. For two years she's had this strange little secret, but she's been doing such an admirable job of ignoring it until it went away.

Apparently, as her fellow student and undercover superperson-recruiter has just informed her, it's not going to.

"I'm a..." That's all she's able to articulate before her mouth goes dry again, and Dawn nods slowly, understanding the abandoned question and eyeing her like some wild animal that's contemplating a rabid spree of mayhem.

Dawn Summers is someone she knows only peripherally. They share a Latin class together, exchange notes now and again, not much more than that until Dawn cornered her after the lecture and led her here to pull the strings of her life all undone.

Dawn said she just found out and volunteered since she was the nearest operative. Dawn said it's not a perfect system and so many girls are still out there suffering an inexplicable influx of strength, odd dreams, and demonic hounds honing in on their newly enhanced auras. Dawn said she was sorry it took them so long to find her. What Dawn didn't say is that it's a joke, or it's reversible, or that she even has a choice in the matter.

Dawn shifts in her seat, sips at her iced mocha until the straw slurps at the bottom of the well, while Jess just stares, trying to will her into a dream apparition that will melt away like so much smoke and take the madness with her.

Dawn says, "Look, I know it's a lot—" and that's as far as she gets because someone opens fire and the windows are shattering and everyone's screaming and running and stampeding like trapped, rabid buffalo and there's sticky red flying through the air and Dawn's shouting, "Get down!" and dives under the table and snatches the leg of Jess' jeans to yank her under there with her.

The hail of gunfire doesn't stop, seems to come from everywhere at once. Glass keeps breaking, wood keeps chipping and sending splintered debris everywhere, the screams are spreading and scattering and interspersed with sobs, and Jess' life-altering moment has just been stomped all over with this more immediate life-threatening terror.

She flinches and jams her hands against her ears, doesn't resist when Dawn pulls her close and shrinks them both away from the open end of the table toward the wall, and all Jess can think about now is, Sam, oh God, where's Sam? because he had to talk to one of his professors about something and then he was supposed to meet her between classes for lunch.

This startling image bursts clear and bright in her mind: Sam mowed down by bullets in bloody, agonizing slow motion; he's so huge they can't miss, and Jess is freaking out and not a little pissed, something deeply primal and possessive called to the surface.

Dawn's wriggling around in the cramped space, frees a cell phone from her pocket and stabs at it with her thumbs, face baring the same kind of fear for someone not here. Jess tugs out her own phone, dials Sam, and gets nothing but hissing static.

Both girls pull the devices from their ears as one, staring at them in consternation as if sheer force of will can magic them into some better shade of cooperative.

"Oh my God, they're just little kids!" someone shouts, and someone else adds, "They're homicidal kids with big guns, stay the hell down!"

Jess looks at Dawn, mysterious girl with all the freaky information, and says, "What the hell?"

Dawn shrugs, confused and thoughtful at the same time, replies, "I don't know," and Jess is kinda upset she's not even trying to make her feel better anymore.

-:-

Lydecker is appalled.

He's ensconced safely in the unassuming unmarked van angled along a row of shops just on the edge of campus, watching the live footage with a purpling face and a thick vein throbbing dark blue and ominous just above his lowered brows. He's cramped up next to two of his underlings, all of them clad in civvies for the mission that was supposed to go quick and quiet under the radar and not draw attention.

"What the hell are they doing?" he demands, voice blowing up the small space and causing his soldiers to flinch.

The console is packed with tiny monitors, each rectangle revealing a flurry of utter madness: running, stray gunfire, civilians exploding red and flopping to the ground, rushing grass and blurry bird's-eye views from rooftops and complete radio silence from his kids as one of his lieutenants tries to raise them and pass along the question.

This is not how it's supposed to happen at all. It's chaos. Lydecker commands respect, fear, order. He loathes chaos. His chest is tight and thundering a low, building rage as, one by one, the cameras plummet to the ground and the screens go white with crackling snow.

"They're stomping the feed!" he realizes, that vein pulsing just a bit harder. "What the fuck? What the fucking fuck?" He turns to his flabbergasted second in command with this volcanic inquiry, receives a nervous shrug in response.

"Get out there, you sack of shit!" Lydecker barks, jerking an arm at the van's doors. "Haul 'em back in before the whole damn world gets here! Damage control, move!"

Both men scramble to obey, unable to slink and stumble out of the vehicle fast enough. Lydecker takes a deep breath as the doors slam shut, looks back at the now useless monitors. It's too late for containment, he knows, can already hear the sirens and picture the news vans following the scent of tragedy like bloodthirsty wolves, and his whole mission is about to go nationwide and draw the wrong kind of attention.

"Fuck!" he hisses, eyes flashing yellow as he bangs an impotent fist against the console.

-:-

Dean is lounging in a motel somewhere off I-10 in the scorching-middle-of-nowhere Texas when the news comes on.

The window unit is coughing extra hard, protesting its abuse as he sprawls shirtless on one of the beds, idly flipping channels. John is hunched at the table, cleaning weapons relentlessly out of boredom because the flimsy rumor of a haunted highway turned out to be heat mirages in a town with too many old people sensitive to that kind of thing. John's got that extra helping of grouchy going on thanks to the combination of wasted time, sticky heat, and no new leads to follow.

The hunt has been slow lately, and it hasn't served to improve Dean's quality of life as Sam's absence sits in the space between them like a huge, sucking void with nothing to distract from it. Neither of them is keen to venture back out into the day until the sun fades a little lower and takes its fire with it, so they're twiddling their thumbs until a newspaper or a ringing phone beckons them elsewhere.

Dean gives up the channel-surfing and braves the stain-riddled, threadbare carpet with bare feet, ferrets his dad's laptop from their things and returns to the bed. Boredom is bad for him in too many ways to count, and he's eager to find anything to chase after, even another rumor.

The television is a bunch of annoying background prattle, and he raises his eyes as the laptop boots up, frowns at the talk show he left it on: blubbering, jilted exes and paternity tests. He reaches for the remote again just as the show is unceremoniously hurtled through with spinning text and the breaking news soundtrack of doom.

John looks up from his methodical task, interest briefly piqued at the serious faces of the newscasters, and then they start blathering on about school shootings and mass panic.

When the anchor blurts the name of the well-known and highly-coveted ivy league school in disbelief, Dean's heart stops in his chest, wide eyes immediately seeking out his father's.

John surges to his feet and starts tossing things into duffels, face hard and dark, and Dean quickly follows suit, not even bothering to get dressed as he runs around, fumbling through one pocket for his cell phone and cramming it against his ear without pausing.

There's no answer.

The television is still blaring, room key flat on the table, the door wide open as they practically leap into the Impala and haul ass for the interstate.

NEXT