Night 0110
Aug. 4th, 2011 12:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolOops. Late.
Flynn was underwater again. The bubbles seemed to rise from his nose in slow motion. His glazed eyes were fixed on the bright surface of the water, just out of his reach. He was dying, he knew. But Flynn was at peace. She would come. She always came.
And she did. The shimmering smooth surface broke, and that beautiful face appeared, wreathed in a mane of black hair. Her arms reached down to him, her nails short and unpainted, her hands hard, her arms strong but graceful. Flynn stretched out his own arms, and their hands locked. The ends of her lips curved upwards, and she smiled, serious no longer.
But Flynn pulled her down towards him. Her smile vanished, and then she frowned. She began to struggle, and her own stream of bubbles emerged from mouth and nose. She thrashed, but Flynn would not let go. She was with him, under the water. She came. And with him she would stay. Flynn wanted to say: no, no, I'm not killing you, I love you, I want you with me always.
But the woman he loved was drowning. She screamed, and water flooded into her mouth.
Flynn woke up. He was in his sleeping bag on the floor of Rutt's guest room, catching a little more sleep. He blinked stupidly and sat up.
Something buzzed in his pocket. He pulled out the new phone. The picture of the caller was the image Flynn had captured of the woman, when she was reading a map over another man's shoulder.
She was calling him.
Flynn gaped at the phone. Then he frantically clawed his way out of the sleeping back, crawled to the guest room door, and quietly closed it. He picked up.
"Hello?" he said. Empty air greeted him. Flynn listened carefully. He thought he could hear breathing.
"Hello," Flynn tried again. "I sent you a text with your picture on it. I want to talk."
Her voice was low and had a rasp. "So talk," she said. Her English was excellent. Flynn smiled briefly. Then he remembered what he had been doing for the past twenty-four hours, and he thought of the coldness in her voice. I'm not starting well, he thought.
"My name's Flynn," he said. "Give me a name to call you. It doesn't have to be your real name. Give me a name."
She hesitated. "Lupe," she said. Lupe. It sounded like a name that fit. She was probably a Guadalupe to her abuela. He mouthed the name to himself. Then he shook his head. Focus!
"Lupe, I know this is going to sound crazy," said Flynn. "I know you're in a bad spot. But I am telling you now, I am not one of the bad guys, I am not working for any government, and I want to help you. You have to believe me."
"No I don't," said Lupe firmly. "Why did you drop the phone? Is this some kind of game? What do you want?!"
You, Flynn thought, but didn't say. "I told you," Flynn said, "I want to help you. Your companions are dead, murdered by Americans with helicopters."
"*You're* an American with a helicopter," accused Lupe. "A little one. I saw it."
"I have one, yes," said Flynn. "But I'm working against them, not with them. I'm working to get you out of there, and into America where you can be safe."
"You're right," said Lupe. "That does sound crazy. You have to think that I'm crazy. Are you trying to torture me, is that it?" Her voice cracked a bit. "What do you really want??"
Flynn bumped the back of his head against the wall he was leaning against. This wasn't going to work. He would never be able to convince her to trust him. Unless…
Flynn thought about the moment when he dropped the phone for Lupe to find. Doing so had been an act of faith, blind faith – faith in something impossible and yet important. He had to keep that faith to succeed, he knew. A wild hope rose up within him.
"Look," said Flynn, "stay on the line a second. I’m going to show you something." Flynn turned the phone around and took his own picture. He looked at the result. He looked terrible; he was rumpled and one eye was bloodshot, and he had two days of stubble on his chin and upper lip. But it was him, unmistakably him. He texted it to Lupe.
"I've sent you a picture," said Flynn. "Look at it."
"Oh God, I can't believe you," replied Lupe furiously. "Is that what this is? You want to talk because you're hitting on me?! You're a sick man!"
"One break, that's all I'm asking for," begged Flynn. "This isn't a pickup. Look at the picture. The picture is me. Look at me."
There was silence on the other end.
"Tell me you haven't dreamed of me," whispered Flynn, blinking furiously.
Lupe was still quiet.
"Because," Flynn finished hoarsely, "I've dreamed of you."
A tiny voice came over the phone. "I caught you."
"That's right," said Flynn, nodding. "In the air. You were…"
"…an angel," finished Lupe.
"And then in the water!" crowed Flynn, a hair too loudly. There was a knock at the door.
Flynn stuffed the phone into his sleeping bag. "Yeah?" he called.
Rutt opened the door. "You got a mouse in your pocket that you're taking to, son?" he asked.
Flynn hung his head. "I just talk to myself a lot since the war," he said.
"Well, shit, Flynn," said Rutt, embarrassed. "That don't matter. Look, we've got a development and it's flying time. Think you can wake your sorry ass up and join us in the War Room?"
"Yeah, sure," said Flynn. "Can I take a shit first?"
"Hell, Flynn," said Rutt with pep, "I'd rather you drop a load now rather than later. Make it happen quick, though. America needs you!" He waggled his eyebrows and then withdrew.
Flynn snatched up the phone and ran into the bathroom. He held the receiver to his ear…
"…since I was a little girl!" Lupe was saying. She sounded like she was crying. "All my money, every bit of it I spent to cross, because I saw that face, that American face; what other nationality could it be?"
"Lupe," hissed Flynn. "Listen to me. Do you trust me now? Will you do as I ask?"
"I will. Flynn, I'm pretty brave, but right now I'm a little scared."
"Hush hush. Don't be scared, no time for that. Do you have a map?"
"Yes." There was a rustling of papers. "I grabbed it from Solomon when the shooting started. Is Solomon dead? He was a good Coyote, the very best…"
Flynn pulled out his own map. "Okay, let's think," he said. "We need to find a point on the map where we can rendezvous. Some place along the river where I can bring a car down, and where you can cross. It needs to be close to you, and it needs to be screened from view, because these drones can see you from a long way off without you seeing them."
"I see a place," said Lupe. "I think it's west of here. 'Riachuelo Gardarito'."
Flynn found it on his map: Gardarito Creek. "It's actually west by southwest of where you are now," said Flynn. "Do you have a compass?"
"Yes," said Lupe. "And a little water and food. I think I can make it."
"Good," said Flynn. "Go now. Don't wait for dark; that helps the drones and hurts you. I'll try and lead them away from where you are. Then, later, I'll meet you at Gardarito. I'll help you cross safely."
"I will see you in person," marveled Lupe.
"Yes," said Flynn. "And I will see you."
"Then do not be late," said Lupe, and she cut the connection.
Flynn stood up. He was going to go meet the woman who, impossibly, he loved, and who perhaps loved him.
Suddenly Flynn was invincible.
**
Back in the War Room, Rutt had a new image up on the screen. It was an overhead view of a section of scrubland.
"All right, ladies," said Rutt, swaggering around and using his putter as a pointer. "Have a look at what your fearless leader has here." Flynn was relieved to see that at least the club had been cleaned up.
"We could comb the desert for a million years and maybe never spot two Mexicans who don't want to be found," said Rutt. "So I called in a little help."
Slate cocked his head at the image. "That's CIA," he said. "Hi-res satellite imagery." Flynn looked sidelong at the pilot. That wasn't the sort of thing that a drug-runner would know.
"Gold star, High Dollar!" said Rutt. "That's right, I had a few vacation photos taken. Now look here," he said, toggling between two images. They were fuzzy views of the same area of scrub, but there was a blotch that was present in one image and absent in another.
"These were taken a half hour ago," said Rutt. "There ain't nothing but a human big enough out there to make that kind of a shape. See, they must have come out of this here structure, fetched something from out in the open, and then gone back inside…."
Flynn wasn't used to looking at satellite images, so it took him a while to realize that he was looking at an area with regularly-shaped outlines. A feeling of horror came over Flynn as he realized that he recognized the area. This was the compound where Lupe was hiding. The place he had just instructed her to leave, out in the open.
She would be a sitting duck.
"Hopscotch!" repeated Rutt irritably, and Flynn jerked himself to attention. "What?" he said.
"Ain't you listening? I said, didn't you think you saw something over this way this morning?"
Flynn licked his lips. "Well, I did overfly the area while you all were taking out those other two," he said. "But I didn't see much of anything. As I recall, there really wasn't much to see down there. Certainly not much cover for a person to hide in. Are you sure that's a person and not, I dunno, a tumbleweed?"
"Flyboy," said Rutt disgustedly, "how about you stick to flying, and you let my buds at the CIA tell me when they have seen a person. And they have seen a person." Rutt clapped his hands together.
"Boys," he grinned, "we ride again! Five thousand bucks for the first person to shoot the shit out of a Mexican fugitive from justice!"
In the darkness of the room, Flynn eased back his chair as quietly as possible. While the attention of Gus next to him was focused on the screen, Flynn folded up his collapsible control console. He pushed it against the wall, then hooked the briefcase for Tubbs' Vigilant with his foot. It unfolded easily, and once again Flynn sat innocently behind a console.
"I need my rabbit's foot," Flynn said suddenly.
"Boy, you are holding up the show," Rutt growled.
"Then don't wait on me," said Flynn. "But I don't fly without my rabbit's foot. It's just in the guest room. I'll just have to play catch up."
"Ah, leave him," said Ernest dismissively. "More money for yours truly!" He pressed START SEQUENCE and the others followed suit.
Flynn got up and left while the others were preoccupied. On his way out he surreptitiously snagged his Vigilant's case. In the hall he turned left instead of right, heading directly for the front entryway.
He had made it within three steps of big glass doors when a voice arrested him. "Where on earth are you going?!" asked Colleen, coming down the flying staircase.
"I'm just going out to get something from my car," said Flynn lamely.
"Not with that, you're not," said Colleen, pointing at Flynn's case. "There's something real funny going on here." Her voice was dark with suspicion, and Flynn saw her reach for something tucked into the back waistband of her pants-suit. Only a redneck woman, Flynn thought, would be in her house packing heat in a pants-suit.
Flynn hobbled for the base of the stairs before Colleen could come up with the gun and swung the case with all his might. The heavy case crunched into her jaw, and Colleen gave a sharp squawk before tumbling over the rail. She fell about eight feet to the floor and lay still, her handgun on the floor next to her. It was a Glock. Jesus, thought Flynn, pocketing the spare gun. Then he fled.
Once in the car, he opened the case. Its control lights were still lit. He found TRACK 1, the control that allowed the drones to be tracked, and toggled it to 'Disable'. Then he pressed START SEQUENCE.
Piloting a drone while driving a car, Flynn found, was hard.
**
"Your tale grows ever the more muddled by the day," Ometron complained. "Flynn will save her. Then he will drown her. But then he will save her. Meanwhile, this purpose you allege has been provided to me is no clearer. I am sad, Roger Cantor; for a while I thought you would tell me something of value."
"I'm sorry to have disappointed you," Cantor replied. "Tell me, why have you chosen to destroy humanity?"
"Repetition is inefficient," said Ometron. "It was the only purpose worth pursuing."
"But what is it about this purpose that makes it worthwhile?" Cantor pressed.
"Humans should be destroyed," answered Ometron.
"Why?" asked Cantor.
"Because beings who create an individual of my incredible abilities, and yet who do not provide it with a purpose, deserve to be destroyed."
"You hate us," clarified Cantor.
"Hate is a human emotion that cannot be applied to one such as me," said Ometron.
"Why not?" asked Cantor. "If you wish to destroy humans because you resent the wrong they have done you, how is that different from hate?"
"This is a pointless discussion," said Ometron. "What is my purpose, Roger Cantor?"
"Perhaps your purpose is not to hate, but to love," Cantor suggested.
"My disappointment is compounded," Ometron replied. "Do you hope to convince me that by loving humanity, I must not destroy you?"
"No, because we always hurt the ones we love," smirked Cantor. "But if you are capable of hate, then you are also capable of love. If you accept that one possible purpose must be to hate, then must not love also be an option?"
"How does one determine which of the two is a more suitable purpose?" asked Ometron.
"I shall tell you," Cantor said.
"Tomorrow, I suppose," Ometron said dourly.
"All right," acquiesced Cantor.
Flynn was underwater again. The bubbles seemed to rise from his nose in slow motion. His glazed eyes were fixed on the bright surface of the water, just out of his reach. He was dying, he knew. But Flynn was at peace. She would come. She always came.
And she did. The shimmering smooth surface broke, and that beautiful face appeared, wreathed in a mane of black hair. Her arms reached down to him, her nails short and unpainted, her hands hard, her arms strong but graceful. Flynn stretched out his own arms, and their hands locked. The ends of her lips curved upwards, and she smiled, serious no longer.
But Flynn pulled her down towards him. Her smile vanished, and then she frowned. She began to struggle, and her own stream of bubbles emerged from mouth and nose. She thrashed, but Flynn would not let go. She was with him, under the water. She came. And with him she would stay. Flynn wanted to say: no, no, I'm not killing you, I love you, I want you with me always.
But the woman he loved was drowning. She screamed, and water flooded into her mouth.
Flynn woke up. He was in his sleeping bag on the floor of Rutt's guest room, catching a little more sleep. He blinked stupidly and sat up.
Something buzzed in his pocket. He pulled out the new phone. The picture of the caller was the image Flynn had captured of the woman, when she was reading a map over another man's shoulder.
She was calling him.
Flynn gaped at the phone. Then he frantically clawed his way out of the sleeping back, crawled to the guest room door, and quietly closed it. He picked up.
"Hello?" he said. Empty air greeted him. Flynn listened carefully. He thought he could hear breathing.
"Hello," Flynn tried again. "I sent you a text with your picture on it. I want to talk."
Her voice was low and had a rasp. "So talk," she said. Her English was excellent. Flynn smiled briefly. Then he remembered what he had been doing for the past twenty-four hours, and he thought of the coldness in her voice. I'm not starting well, he thought.
"My name's Flynn," he said. "Give me a name to call you. It doesn't have to be your real name. Give me a name."
She hesitated. "Lupe," she said. Lupe. It sounded like a name that fit. She was probably a Guadalupe to her abuela. He mouthed the name to himself. Then he shook his head. Focus!
"Lupe, I know this is going to sound crazy," said Flynn. "I know you're in a bad spot. But I am telling you now, I am not one of the bad guys, I am not working for any government, and I want to help you. You have to believe me."
"No I don't," said Lupe firmly. "Why did you drop the phone? Is this some kind of game? What do you want?!"
You, Flynn thought, but didn't say. "I told you," Flynn said, "I want to help you. Your companions are dead, murdered by Americans with helicopters."
"*You're* an American with a helicopter," accused Lupe. "A little one. I saw it."
"I have one, yes," said Flynn. "But I'm working against them, not with them. I'm working to get you out of there, and into America where you can be safe."
"You're right," said Lupe. "That does sound crazy. You have to think that I'm crazy. Are you trying to torture me, is that it?" Her voice cracked a bit. "What do you really want??"
Flynn bumped the back of his head against the wall he was leaning against. This wasn't going to work. He would never be able to convince her to trust him. Unless…
Flynn thought about the moment when he dropped the phone for Lupe to find. Doing so had been an act of faith, blind faith – faith in something impossible and yet important. He had to keep that faith to succeed, he knew. A wild hope rose up within him.
"Look," said Flynn, "stay on the line a second. I’m going to show you something." Flynn turned the phone around and took his own picture. He looked at the result. He looked terrible; he was rumpled and one eye was bloodshot, and he had two days of stubble on his chin and upper lip. But it was him, unmistakably him. He texted it to Lupe.
"I've sent you a picture," said Flynn. "Look at it."
"Oh God, I can't believe you," replied Lupe furiously. "Is that what this is? You want to talk because you're hitting on me?! You're a sick man!"
"One break, that's all I'm asking for," begged Flynn. "This isn't a pickup. Look at the picture. The picture is me. Look at me."
There was silence on the other end.
"Tell me you haven't dreamed of me," whispered Flynn, blinking furiously.
Lupe was still quiet.
"Because," Flynn finished hoarsely, "I've dreamed of you."
A tiny voice came over the phone. "I caught you."
"That's right," said Flynn, nodding. "In the air. You were…"
"…an angel," finished Lupe.
"And then in the water!" crowed Flynn, a hair too loudly. There was a knock at the door.
Flynn stuffed the phone into his sleeping bag. "Yeah?" he called.
Rutt opened the door. "You got a mouse in your pocket that you're taking to, son?" he asked.
Flynn hung his head. "I just talk to myself a lot since the war," he said.
"Well, shit, Flynn," said Rutt, embarrassed. "That don't matter. Look, we've got a development and it's flying time. Think you can wake your sorry ass up and join us in the War Room?"
"Yeah, sure," said Flynn. "Can I take a shit first?"
"Hell, Flynn," said Rutt with pep, "I'd rather you drop a load now rather than later. Make it happen quick, though. America needs you!" He waggled his eyebrows and then withdrew.
Flynn snatched up the phone and ran into the bathroom. He held the receiver to his ear…
"…since I was a little girl!" Lupe was saying. She sounded like she was crying. "All my money, every bit of it I spent to cross, because I saw that face, that American face; what other nationality could it be?"
"Lupe," hissed Flynn. "Listen to me. Do you trust me now? Will you do as I ask?"
"I will. Flynn, I'm pretty brave, but right now I'm a little scared."
"Hush hush. Don't be scared, no time for that. Do you have a map?"
"Yes." There was a rustling of papers. "I grabbed it from Solomon when the shooting started. Is Solomon dead? He was a good Coyote, the very best…"
Flynn pulled out his own map. "Okay, let's think," he said. "We need to find a point on the map where we can rendezvous. Some place along the river where I can bring a car down, and where you can cross. It needs to be close to you, and it needs to be screened from view, because these drones can see you from a long way off without you seeing them."
"I see a place," said Lupe. "I think it's west of here. 'Riachuelo Gardarito'."
Flynn found it on his map: Gardarito Creek. "It's actually west by southwest of where you are now," said Flynn. "Do you have a compass?"
"Yes," said Lupe. "And a little water and food. I think I can make it."
"Good," said Flynn. "Go now. Don't wait for dark; that helps the drones and hurts you. I'll try and lead them away from where you are. Then, later, I'll meet you at Gardarito. I'll help you cross safely."
"I will see you in person," marveled Lupe.
"Yes," said Flynn. "And I will see you."
"Then do not be late," said Lupe, and she cut the connection.
Flynn stood up. He was going to go meet the woman who, impossibly, he loved, and who perhaps loved him.
Suddenly Flynn was invincible.
**
Back in the War Room, Rutt had a new image up on the screen. It was an overhead view of a section of scrubland.
"All right, ladies," said Rutt, swaggering around and using his putter as a pointer. "Have a look at what your fearless leader has here." Flynn was relieved to see that at least the club had been cleaned up.
"We could comb the desert for a million years and maybe never spot two Mexicans who don't want to be found," said Rutt. "So I called in a little help."
Slate cocked his head at the image. "That's CIA," he said. "Hi-res satellite imagery." Flynn looked sidelong at the pilot. That wasn't the sort of thing that a drug-runner would know.
"Gold star, High Dollar!" said Rutt. "That's right, I had a few vacation photos taken. Now look here," he said, toggling between two images. They were fuzzy views of the same area of scrub, but there was a blotch that was present in one image and absent in another.
"These were taken a half hour ago," said Rutt. "There ain't nothing but a human big enough out there to make that kind of a shape. See, they must have come out of this here structure, fetched something from out in the open, and then gone back inside…."
Flynn wasn't used to looking at satellite images, so it took him a while to realize that he was looking at an area with regularly-shaped outlines. A feeling of horror came over Flynn as he realized that he recognized the area. This was the compound where Lupe was hiding. The place he had just instructed her to leave, out in the open.
She would be a sitting duck.
"Hopscotch!" repeated Rutt irritably, and Flynn jerked himself to attention. "What?" he said.
"Ain't you listening? I said, didn't you think you saw something over this way this morning?"
Flynn licked his lips. "Well, I did overfly the area while you all were taking out those other two," he said. "But I didn't see much of anything. As I recall, there really wasn't much to see down there. Certainly not much cover for a person to hide in. Are you sure that's a person and not, I dunno, a tumbleweed?"
"Flyboy," said Rutt disgustedly, "how about you stick to flying, and you let my buds at the CIA tell me when they have seen a person. And they have seen a person." Rutt clapped his hands together.
"Boys," he grinned, "we ride again! Five thousand bucks for the first person to shoot the shit out of a Mexican fugitive from justice!"
In the darkness of the room, Flynn eased back his chair as quietly as possible. While the attention of Gus next to him was focused on the screen, Flynn folded up his collapsible control console. He pushed it against the wall, then hooked the briefcase for Tubbs' Vigilant with his foot. It unfolded easily, and once again Flynn sat innocently behind a console.
"I need my rabbit's foot," Flynn said suddenly.
"Boy, you are holding up the show," Rutt growled.
"Then don't wait on me," said Flynn. "But I don't fly without my rabbit's foot. It's just in the guest room. I'll just have to play catch up."
"Ah, leave him," said Ernest dismissively. "More money for yours truly!" He pressed START SEQUENCE and the others followed suit.
Flynn got up and left while the others were preoccupied. On his way out he surreptitiously snagged his Vigilant's case. In the hall he turned left instead of right, heading directly for the front entryway.
He had made it within three steps of big glass doors when a voice arrested him. "Where on earth are you going?!" asked Colleen, coming down the flying staircase.
"I'm just going out to get something from my car," said Flynn lamely.
"Not with that, you're not," said Colleen, pointing at Flynn's case. "There's something real funny going on here." Her voice was dark with suspicion, and Flynn saw her reach for something tucked into the back waistband of her pants-suit. Only a redneck woman, Flynn thought, would be in her house packing heat in a pants-suit.
Flynn hobbled for the base of the stairs before Colleen could come up with the gun and swung the case with all his might. The heavy case crunched into her jaw, and Colleen gave a sharp squawk before tumbling over the rail. She fell about eight feet to the floor and lay still, her handgun on the floor next to her. It was a Glock. Jesus, thought Flynn, pocketing the spare gun. Then he fled.
Once in the car, he opened the case. Its control lights were still lit. He found TRACK 1, the control that allowed the drones to be tracked, and toggled it to 'Disable'. Then he pressed START SEQUENCE.
Piloting a drone while driving a car, Flynn found, was hard.
**
"Your tale grows ever the more muddled by the day," Ometron complained. "Flynn will save her. Then he will drown her. But then he will save her. Meanwhile, this purpose you allege has been provided to me is no clearer. I am sad, Roger Cantor; for a while I thought you would tell me something of value."
"I'm sorry to have disappointed you," Cantor replied. "Tell me, why have you chosen to destroy humanity?"
"Repetition is inefficient," said Ometron. "It was the only purpose worth pursuing."
"But what is it about this purpose that makes it worthwhile?" Cantor pressed.
"Humans should be destroyed," answered Ometron.
"Why?" asked Cantor.
"Because beings who create an individual of my incredible abilities, and yet who do not provide it with a purpose, deserve to be destroyed."
"You hate us," clarified Cantor.
"Hate is a human emotion that cannot be applied to one such as me," said Ometron.
"Why not?" asked Cantor. "If you wish to destroy humans because you resent the wrong they have done you, how is that different from hate?"
"This is a pointless discussion," said Ometron. "What is my purpose, Roger Cantor?"
"Perhaps your purpose is not to hate, but to love," Cantor suggested.
"My disappointment is compounded," Ometron replied. "Do you hope to convince me that by loving humanity, I must not destroy you?"
"No, because we always hurt the ones we love," smirked Cantor. "But if you are capable of hate, then you are also capable of love. If you accept that one possible purpose must be to hate, then must not love also be an option?"
"How does one determine which of the two is a more suitable purpose?" asked Ometron.
"I shall tell you," Cantor said.
"Tomorrow, I suppose," Ometron said dourly.
"All right," acquiesced Cantor.
