Butterfly Effect by Golden Bastet
Oct. 31st, 2010 06:36 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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discoveredinaljWell, here goes...
Spring in a faraway land. Perhaps around Mount Kinabalu, perhaps near Lake Toba. Perhaps elsewhere.
As seasons went, this spring had been more turbulent than most. A series of especially harsh typhoons had ripped through the forest in a short period of time, loosening roots and disrupting the general flow of nature. Many of the taller trees hadn't been able to withstand the onslaught.
Of course, the flow of nature can always be disrupted, but very little few things can completely stop it. Despite the storms, not much had changed: plants still sent up shoots, animals still went through mating rituals, the earth still warmed under what sun did break through the clouds. For every tree that fell, a multitude of green tendrils uncurled from the soil.
Caterpillars made routes across the foliage, wrapping themselves in a final push to change, to grow wings and take on their final forms. Branches came to bloom with chrysalides, golden ornaments hanging silently and waiting for the right, final day...
===========
"Mr. Doyle, we finally meet. Have a seat, lad."
Even though he'd heard of CI5, Doyle still wasn’t quite sure what this meeting was about. His Detective Chief Superintendent - a man he'd met once, for the length of a handshake, when he'd first joined the force - had called him in to his office for a full twenty minutes, yet there'd been few details. Then he'd been given administrative leave, something not known in his department, to attend this meeting. Now he was at CI5 headquarters, seated in front of some high and mighty. He hoped that this one would be able to provide a full explanation, as "great opportunity," "will make your career," and "don't pass it up" weren't much to go on. And despite some of the rumours he'd heard, he wasn't convinced that this CI5 was anything more than another new crime-fighting "programme" that would go nowhere - beyond allowing someone high up to curry favour and pick up political points.
So - this is George Cowley. He shook the extended hand, studying the figure behind it. From the clothes and the carriage, every inch old-school military. Likely dates from the war; he's the right age for it. And quite in control of his surroundings; must run a tight ship. *Very* tight ship.
Doyle settled himself into the offered chair. Let's hope our Mr. Cowley says his piece quickly - and offers something a *little* more hands-on than "a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." I might get out in time to get to the Centre to coach the kids' football.
"Let me get to the point, Mr. Doyle," the other man began. "I formed CI5 to apply the best of our crime-fighting organisations to situations that those organisations officially can't handle.
"We will track down the smugglers, the terrorists, the figures that the regular forces find themselves hamstrung over whenever they try to bring them to ground. We will use any, and I do mean any, means necessary. And we will do it without public recognition. The work of CI5 is that important - that critical - to the health of the nation.
"It will be demanding work, which few are capable of doing. We only recruit the best; we only have room for those who excel."
Impatient, Doyle started to twirl his thumbs together just below Cowley's line of sight as the man went on. Christ, the Met's seconding me to some daft temporary assignment. And here comes the clincher...
" - would like you to work with us, Doyle. You have the ability. Join our team."
'Joining your team?' Is that what they call it these days? "CI5?"
"Yes."
"While this is an honour, Mr. Cowley," - I don't want your bleeding made-up job - "I’m very useful where I'm at, rather than in some temporary assignment, providing background support - "
Cowley cut in. "This wouldn't be temporary. It's a permanent spot in the organisation. As one of our agents."
"Permanent, sir?" A slight frown.
"Yes. I've seen your files; I've studied your work. This is an elite squad. It will protect in ways that front-line forces can't. I know not only what you can do but what you want to do. And you have both the ability and the desire."
Doyle paused, at a loss for words. This was worse than he'd thought. He definitely didn't want to get stuck in someone's cops-and-robbers wet dream.
"Take a few days to think about it. Here's my card." The older man slid a white square across the desk. "Call with any questions you might have."
Cowley stood with Doyle, fixing him with an intense stare. "This position — this organisation — will allow you to go places, serve in a way, that you never have before.
"The offer stands. But it will not stand forever. Think hard."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Cowley. I appreciate your time, and will give it careful thought." Riiiiiiight. "Thank you for considering me."
Doyle couldn't get out of the building fast enough.
===========
Fingers curling around a tumbler of scotch, Doyle sat alone, thinking. Beyond the dirt-streaked glass of the pub's windows, the bustle of the road stretched endlessly. Street lamps flickered on in the dusk.
West India Dock Road, just down from the Met station. His district. Limehouse. Tower Hamlets. Greater London. England. Great Britain / European continent / Earth. It described a dot on the planet, but a dot he knew well.
He'd expected some pressure to take this job, but not as much as he'd been getting - which just made him more resistant. He'd never liked being pushed into things; he needed to feel that some good could come out of them. And the good here was not easy to see.
"Another one, love?" The barmaid swung by, broad smile across her face.
"Not tonight, Mary; I'd best get home. But thanks again." He swung his legs off the stool, placed some coins on the counter, and left the pub, to blend in with the other figures moving down the road.
===========
There was no one to witness when one of the older trees, loosened and weakened by weeks of rain and wind, finally tipped over and fell onto a smaller bush, crushing it and the golden jewels attached to it.
===========
The funeral was a simple affair, when all was said and done. The parents, plus a few other assorted relatives, all dressed uncomfortably in Sunday best, stood silent before the coffin. The minister's voice, intoning last rites, rumbled over the bent heads. Doyle stood well back, out of obvious line of sight, respectful of the family.
Doyle thought back to the freckled face and unruly red hair which now lay under the heavy wooden lid. It wasn't right. Colin was a good kid - a little rough around the edges, but he could've got out of here. He hadn't wanted the gang anymore. He *would've* left. Instead, they'd turned on him. Anger stiffened his back, maybe in no small part because Doyle had identified with Colin, had seen the same kid he'd been. He thrust his hands into the suit pockets, pushing into Cowley's business card.
CI5. He pulled it out of the pocket. GEORGE COWLEY stared back at him. George Cowley - what do you know about the people down here, the ones who have to live day-to-day? How did your high-level gas-bagging help Colin? Doyle angrily shoved the card back into his pocket. Life wasn't a James Bond movie, where the good guys kicked down the door, rubbed out the bad guys, and saved the day. It was the Colins, and the Jameses, and the Peters who had had no choice in growing up here, in reality. Cowley could keep his sodding CI5 and his politics and stay out of his life...
Later, as the few mourners made their way past the cemetery gates, a groundskeeper noticed one last man, with strikingly curly hair, step up to the grave. The figure flung a scrap of paper in with the coffin, then turned and strode away. That was odd. "Well, mournin's a funny business," he muttered, then turned back to his raking.
===========
"Bodie." Cowley raised his eyes from his paperwork. "Glad you decided to join us. Now, if it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience, could you take a seat, please?"
"Yes, sir." Panther-like, Bodie poured his frame into one of the chairs opposite the massive desk. Attentive and respectful, he still projected a readiness to spring and devour.
"Now, 3.7, I'm sending you out with 2.9 - "
"McKay, sir? Tommy McKay? With all due respect, sir, he's a bit of a loose cannon, liable to get us both killed - "
"That's enough, 3.7. You will go on this case and you will go with 2.9. This is neither a solo job or an option. Understand?"
"Understood, sir."
"Good, then. I will brief both of you on particulars this afternoon, when 2.9 is back in the office. Dismissed, 3.7."
"Sir - "
"Dismissed, 3.7."
"Yes, sir." The panther glided up and slipped from the office, a line of indignation down his spine.
I know, lad, but I can't pair you with anyone here so far. Don't worry, I'll do you right - it will just take a little more time.
Cowley paused just briefly, then moved back to the neat piles of folders lining one side of the desk. The one marked 'Raymond Doyle' moved to the 'inactive' pile, while he picked up another marked 'Andrew Preston.'
===========
"I say we make a run for it, 3.7. They just have us pinned down, we can get out. Here, we're sittin' ducks; we stay, they close in."
"No. We stay here, we wait."
"I'm tellin' you, man - we stay here, we're dead!"
"And what would you know - or did you forget to mention your extensive special operations experience in your personnel file?" A little unfair, but Bodie wanted to end the conversation.
"So what's your great idea then, 3.7?" McKay wasn't convinced Bodie had any ideas, wasn't doing more than mouthing off, but was willing to hear him out.
"We stay here, we maintain the position, and we pick them off as they come."
"And we have no idea how many there are, and this passageway is like a shooting gallery. Right. I've had about enough of this. If you'd like to send out personal invitations to your funeral, don't let me stop you - but I refuse to wait for it. So ta." McKay moved off and scuttled to the end of their position.
A harsh whisper: "No, idiot, we're better off working together! Stay here a minute!"
But it was too late; McKay leapt up and out into the line of fire before Bodie could stop him. And he almost, almost made it across the gap, had almost made it before Bodie saw the bloom of red and the body fall just short of the opposite passageway.
Bodie came from a background and a tradition that insisted that comrades stay together and cover each other. Arguing strategy was one thing; standing up for your mates quite another. He swung around the corner and aimed for the most logical direction that the bullets could have come from. There was a satisfying series of thuds, and a body fell just a few feet from him. That's one. He pulled back behind the corner, quickly reloading, then threw an empty can across the exposed gap. A short blast of shots follow, silenced when the gunman realized what Bodie was doing. Ah, up on the second floor. Should have noticed that earlier. Bodie then threw his jacket into the gap, which brought another few shots, then swung around, aiming up at the second-story window. When he was done, a body lay draped over the sill. And that's two. Time to get out and call for aid.
He started reaching for his jacket - and suddenly the world turned upside down, the ground and the sky switching places. He couldn't get his thoughts together, and his body wasn't responding to his mind's commands to take cover; instead, he remained motionless, something wet pooling under him.
A shape came into focus in his line of site - approaching him, pointing a gun. He wasn't sure why; he wouldn't be able to move in the shape he was in. What the hell - last man standing. There must've been a third shooter, who'd come round behind them. McKay must've been right about waiting too long. How did I miss that?
He was starting to get cold, and time was slowing down. So this was how it would end. He'd never really thought about what death would look like before; no time to. Bad luck; he'd actually liked a good part of what he'd seen about CI5. There's a lot to be done, that I could have done there. I think...
The Cow... won't be very happy about this.
The figure pulled the trigger.
===========
Nature, being nature, neither plays favorites nor completely condemns. After all, the right, final day had been close, and very close for one chrysalis - which had landed just so.
A seam opened slowly but surely, following a pattern established over millennia. A head poked through the crack, then limbs and folded wings. Maneouvering was difficult from the forest floor, but it would have taken more than location to stop the process.
Finally the butterfly was free, but immobile after the effort, its wings still soft and folded.
===========
Impatient, Doyle started to twirl his thumbs together just below Cowley's line of sight as the man went on. Christ, the Met's seconding me to some daft temporary assignment. And here comes the clincher...
Cowley's door burst open, breaking into Cowley's pitch and Doyle's thoughts. Rather than a threat, it was a tall, slim, dark-haired man who strode in. Not screaming, not frantic: he was cool, calm, and collected, but not about to be stopped. The newcomer prowled to Cowley's desk and dropped a folder onto it. A flustered secretary bustled in after him.
"Sir. We have the proof. We know they're trading drugs for guns. But Murphy says we're not going in. Why can't we just - oh." He looked at Doyle, first noticing his presence then sizing him up. Doyle stared back, hard, not intimidated in the least.
"Well, then, there's company round. Bringing in some new choirboys, I see. Shall I just wait outside then, sir?"
Something in Doyle wanted to laugh, his blood racing a bit at the challenge despite his instant dislike. *He's* got bollocks. Clearly a royal pain in the arse, but not afraid to speak his mind... I like that.
The clouds across Cowley's face promised great storms later. "Bodie, we may have not had a specific discussion about appropriate behavior, but we will be having it soon. Very soon." His gaze switched to the secretary. "And Willis, we will be having a discussion very soon as well. Now I would like to continue business in my office, if the two of you do not mind?"
"Yes, sir." Two employees, one more chastened than the other, left the office.
"My apologies for the interruption, Mr. Doyle. That is not the standard here."
"Of course not, sir. I didn't think that standard at all." Doyle actually hadn't thought that, from what he'd seen. CI5 had been nothing if not professional.
"But back to the point: we would like you to work with us, Doyle. In a permanent position, as an agent."
"Permanent, sir?" That's a surprise.
"Yes. I've seen your files; I've studied your work. This is an elite squad. It will protect in ways that front-line forces can't. I know not only what you can do but what you want to do. And you have both the ability and the desire."
Cowley continued, standing with Doyle. "This position - this organisation - will allow you to go places, serve in a way, that you never have before.
"The offer stands. But it will not stand forever. Think hard."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Cowley. I appreciate your time. Thank you for considering me."
Doyle couldn't get out of the building fast enough, for trying very hard not to laugh before he'd cleared the grounds. He had the feeling that "Bodie" would get a talking to, but that there'd be no serious repercussions. And if someone could stand up to a commanding officer like that - maybe CI5 was different, was a chance to get something done.
==================
The minister's voice rumbled over the bent heads as he intoned last rites over the coffin.
Doyle thought back to the freckled face and unruly red hair which now lay under the heavy wooden lid, the kid whom he'd identified with – and who he was sure would have been able to leave the gang and done something with himself. Anger stiffened his back, and he thrust his hands into the suit pockets, pushing into Cowley's business card.
CI5. He pulled it out of the pocket. GEORGE COWLEY stared back at him, but it was Bodie and his rush into the office that he thought about, both angry and amused. What kind of bleeding sod walks into an office like that and mouths off at his superior?
One who isn't content if he can't get things done.
One who is going to make sure they *do* get done.
One whom it might be an honour to work with.
Later, as the few mourners made their way past the cemetery gates, one of the groundskeepers noticed a last man, with strikingly curly hair, step up to the grave. The figure paused for a last look down, then turned and strode away. "God bless ya, sir, and godspeed," he muttered, then turned back to his raking.
==================
"Bodie." Cowley raised his eyes from his paperwork. "Glad you decided to join us. Now, if it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience, could you take a seat, please?"
"Yes, sir." Panther-like, Bodie poured his frame into one of the chairs opposite the massive desk. Attentive and respectful, he still projected a readiness to spring and devour.
"Now, 3.7, I'm sending you out with 4.5 - "
"Doyle, sir? Bobby the Choirboy? With all due respect, sir, he's still in his nappies, liable to get us both killed - "
"That's enough, 3.7. You will go on this case and you will go with 4.5. This is neither a solo job or an option. Understand?"
"Understood, sir."
"Good, then. I will brief both of you on particulars this afternoon, when 4.5 is back in the office. Dismissed, 3.7."
"Sir - "
"Dismissed, 3.7."
"Yes, sir." The panther glided up and slipped from the office, a line of indignation down his spine.
Trust me, lad; he's stronger than you give him credit for, and he's more like you than you think. Don't worry, I'll do you right - it will just take a little more time.
Cowley paused just briefly, his gaze roaming over the neat piles of folders lining one side of the desk. The one marked 'Raymond Doyle' sat atop the 'acquired' pile; he moved on to another labeled 'Andrew Preston.'
===========
"We may as well make a run for it, 3.7. They just have us pinned down, we can get out. Here, we're sitting ducks and they know it; if we stay, they'll just close in."
"No. We stay here, we wait."
"And if we stay here, we're dead!"
"And what would you know - or did you forget to mention your extensive special operations experience in your personnel file?" A little unfair, but Bodie wanted to end the conversation.
"Well, sunshine," Doyle's voice bit on the word, "I qualified higher than you did with firearms. Or did you forget *that* little fact?" Doyle paused, as he noticed the slight surprise at being challenged flicker across the blue eyes. Good. About time sometime told the idiot off. "Look - there's no time for this right now. We've been assigned to each other as partners. Let's act like partners then and end the situation.
"One of the snipers has to be in the second story window. If you cross the alley, and I cover you, you should be able to get into position to take him out of commission."
Bodie again seemed taken aback, but quickly hid his surprise at the obvious solution he hadn't thought of. "The fire we draw will locate the second man, so we can triangulate his position and take him out easily. And then we can get out of here." A hint of a smile teased the corners of his eyes. "I think I could learn to love you, 4.5. Fer yer fine mind, of course, not just yer body." A peace offering of sorts.
"Berk - shut it and concentrate. I'm set to see one Miss Julia Johns tonight, and I intend to be there." Offering accepted.
"Sure, sweetheart; you do that and miss out on the offer of a lifetime. But there's one problem with your little plan. It won't really work."
"What? Why?"
"You qualified higher than everyone else in firearms. You take out the sniper; I'll cover you."
==============
Cowley closed the file in his hands and sat back in his chair, musing.
Bodie and Doyle were turning out to be his best pairing by far. Oh, they poked at and prodded each other, but on a basic level they understood - and, better yet, trusted - each other. It had taken some time, and some adjustments, but Bodie ran much calmer these days and Doyle finally had some trust in what CI5 aimed to accomplish. Almost like a married couple settling in.
"Even better than your usual, George," he smiled to himself. "But don't let them know that."
He turned back to his file and picked up from where he had stopped reading. There was work to be done.
==============
Given time, everything falls into place, as it always does. The great spotted wings, spread to their full span, had hardened into their final shape.
Ready to face the world, the butterfly flapped one, twice, the wings glorious.
Now confident, it took off and flew away into the world, creating the slightest breeze...
......................................
Title: Butterfly Effect
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
golden_bastet
Slash or Gen: Gen (sorry! It wasn't supposed to be originally, LOL)
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: ProsLib (?)
Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above): Golden Bastet
Disclaimer: The Professionals is owned by Avengers Mk1 Productions and London Weekend Television; I lay no claims, I just write goofiness about the characters.
Notes: I've never seen an actual episode... but I thought I'd take a stab at it anyway.
This isn't an out-and-out literally scary Halloween story, but more about things that might - or might not - have been. "There but for the grace of God," and such.
Thanks very much tobornof_sorrow for her help with the characterizations and the Brit-speak. Any errors and unintentional shifts in the space-time continuum are, of course, mine. :^D
Spring in a faraway land. Perhaps around Mount Kinabalu, perhaps near Lake Toba. Perhaps elsewhere.
As seasons went, this spring had been more turbulent than most. A series of especially harsh typhoons had ripped through the forest in a short period of time, loosening roots and disrupting the general flow of nature. Many of the taller trees hadn't been able to withstand the onslaught.
Of course, the flow of nature can always be disrupted, but very little few things can completely stop it. Despite the storms, not much had changed: plants still sent up shoots, animals still went through mating rituals, the earth still warmed under what sun did break through the clouds. For every tree that fell, a multitude of green tendrils uncurled from the soil.
Caterpillars made routes across the foliage, wrapping themselves in a final push to change, to grow wings and take on their final forms. Branches came to bloom with chrysalides, golden ornaments hanging silently and waiting for the right, final day...
===========
"Mr. Doyle, we finally meet. Have a seat, lad."
Even though he'd heard of CI5, Doyle still wasn’t quite sure what this meeting was about. His Detective Chief Superintendent - a man he'd met once, for the length of a handshake, when he'd first joined the force - had called him in to his office for a full twenty minutes, yet there'd been few details. Then he'd been given administrative leave, something not known in his department, to attend this meeting. Now he was at CI5 headquarters, seated in front of some high and mighty. He hoped that this one would be able to provide a full explanation, as "great opportunity," "will make your career," and "don't pass it up" weren't much to go on. And despite some of the rumours he'd heard, he wasn't convinced that this CI5 was anything more than another new crime-fighting "programme" that would go nowhere - beyond allowing someone high up to curry favour and pick up political points.
So - this is George Cowley. He shook the extended hand, studying the figure behind it. From the clothes and the carriage, every inch old-school military. Likely dates from the war; he's the right age for it. And quite in control of his surroundings; must run a tight ship. *Very* tight ship.
Doyle settled himself into the offered chair. Let's hope our Mr. Cowley says his piece quickly - and offers something a *little* more hands-on than "a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." I might get out in time to get to the Centre to coach the kids' football.
"Let me get to the point, Mr. Doyle," the other man began. "I formed CI5 to apply the best of our crime-fighting organisations to situations that those organisations officially can't handle.
"We will track down the smugglers, the terrorists, the figures that the regular forces find themselves hamstrung over whenever they try to bring them to ground. We will use any, and I do mean any, means necessary. And we will do it without public recognition. The work of CI5 is that important - that critical - to the health of the nation.
"It will be demanding work, which few are capable of doing. We only recruit the best; we only have room for those who excel."
Impatient, Doyle started to twirl his thumbs together just below Cowley's line of sight as the man went on. Christ, the Met's seconding me to some daft temporary assignment. And here comes the clincher...
" - would like you to work with us, Doyle. You have the ability. Join our team."
'Joining your team?' Is that what they call it these days? "CI5?"
"Yes."
"While this is an honour, Mr. Cowley," - I don't want your bleeding made-up job - "I’m very useful where I'm at, rather than in some temporary assignment, providing background support - "
Cowley cut in. "This wouldn't be temporary. It's a permanent spot in the organisation. As one of our agents."
"Permanent, sir?" A slight frown.
"Yes. I've seen your files; I've studied your work. This is an elite squad. It will protect in ways that front-line forces can't. I know not only what you can do but what you want to do. And you have both the ability and the desire."
Doyle paused, at a loss for words. This was worse than he'd thought. He definitely didn't want to get stuck in someone's cops-and-robbers wet dream.
"Take a few days to think about it. Here's my card." The older man slid a white square across the desk. "Call with any questions you might have."
Cowley stood with Doyle, fixing him with an intense stare. "This position — this organisation — will allow you to go places, serve in a way, that you never have before.
"The offer stands. But it will not stand forever. Think hard."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Cowley. I appreciate your time, and will give it careful thought." Riiiiiiight. "Thank you for considering me."
Doyle couldn't get out of the building fast enough.
===========
Fingers curling around a tumbler of scotch, Doyle sat alone, thinking. Beyond the dirt-streaked glass of the pub's windows, the bustle of the road stretched endlessly. Street lamps flickered on in the dusk.
West India Dock Road, just down from the Met station. His district. Limehouse. Tower Hamlets. Greater London. England. Great Britain / European continent / Earth. It described a dot on the planet, but a dot he knew well.
He'd expected some pressure to take this job, but not as much as he'd been getting - which just made him more resistant. He'd never liked being pushed into things; he needed to feel that some good could come out of them. And the good here was not easy to see.
"Another one, love?" The barmaid swung by, broad smile across her face.
"Not tonight, Mary; I'd best get home. But thanks again." He swung his legs off the stool, placed some coins on the counter, and left the pub, to blend in with the other figures moving down the road.
===========
There was no one to witness when one of the older trees, loosened and weakened by weeks of rain and wind, finally tipped over and fell onto a smaller bush, crushing it and the golden jewels attached to it.
===========
The funeral was a simple affair, when all was said and done. The parents, plus a few other assorted relatives, all dressed uncomfortably in Sunday best, stood silent before the coffin. The minister's voice, intoning last rites, rumbled over the bent heads. Doyle stood well back, out of obvious line of sight, respectful of the family.
Doyle thought back to the freckled face and unruly red hair which now lay under the heavy wooden lid. It wasn't right. Colin was a good kid - a little rough around the edges, but he could've got out of here. He hadn't wanted the gang anymore. He *would've* left. Instead, they'd turned on him. Anger stiffened his back, maybe in no small part because Doyle had identified with Colin, had seen the same kid he'd been. He thrust his hands into the suit pockets, pushing into Cowley's business card.
CI5. He pulled it out of the pocket. GEORGE COWLEY stared back at him. George Cowley - what do you know about the people down here, the ones who have to live day-to-day? How did your high-level gas-bagging help Colin? Doyle angrily shoved the card back into his pocket. Life wasn't a James Bond movie, where the good guys kicked down the door, rubbed out the bad guys, and saved the day. It was the Colins, and the Jameses, and the Peters who had had no choice in growing up here, in reality. Cowley could keep his sodding CI5 and his politics and stay out of his life...
Later, as the few mourners made their way past the cemetery gates, a groundskeeper noticed one last man, with strikingly curly hair, step up to the grave. The figure flung a scrap of paper in with the coffin, then turned and strode away. That was odd. "Well, mournin's a funny business," he muttered, then turned back to his raking.
===========
"Bodie." Cowley raised his eyes from his paperwork. "Glad you decided to join us. Now, if it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience, could you take a seat, please?"
"Yes, sir." Panther-like, Bodie poured his frame into one of the chairs opposite the massive desk. Attentive and respectful, he still projected a readiness to spring and devour.
"Now, 3.7, I'm sending you out with 2.9 - "
"McKay, sir? Tommy McKay? With all due respect, sir, he's a bit of a loose cannon, liable to get us both killed - "
"That's enough, 3.7. You will go on this case and you will go with 2.9. This is neither a solo job or an option. Understand?"
"Understood, sir."
"Good, then. I will brief both of you on particulars this afternoon, when 2.9 is back in the office. Dismissed, 3.7."
"Sir - "
"Dismissed, 3.7."
"Yes, sir." The panther glided up and slipped from the office, a line of indignation down his spine.
I know, lad, but I can't pair you with anyone here so far. Don't worry, I'll do you right - it will just take a little more time.
Cowley paused just briefly, then moved back to the neat piles of folders lining one side of the desk. The one marked 'Raymond Doyle' moved to the 'inactive' pile, while he picked up another marked 'Andrew Preston.'
===========
"I say we make a run for it, 3.7. They just have us pinned down, we can get out. Here, we're sittin' ducks; we stay, they close in."
"No. We stay here, we wait."
"I'm tellin' you, man - we stay here, we're dead!"
"And what would you know - or did you forget to mention your extensive special operations experience in your personnel file?" A little unfair, but Bodie wanted to end the conversation.
"So what's your great idea then, 3.7?" McKay wasn't convinced Bodie had any ideas, wasn't doing more than mouthing off, but was willing to hear him out.
"We stay here, we maintain the position, and we pick them off as they come."
"And we have no idea how many there are, and this passageway is like a shooting gallery. Right. I've had about enough of this. If you'd like to send out personal invitations to your funeral, don't let me stop you - but I refuse to wait for it. So ta." McKay moved off and scuttled to the end of their position.
A harsh whisper: "No, idiot, we're better off working together! Stay here a minute!"
But it was too late; McKay leapt up and out into the line of fire before Bodie could stop him. And he almost, almost made it across the gap, had almost made it before Bodie saw the bloom of red and the body fall just short of the opposite passageway.
Bodie came from a background and a tradition that insisted that comrades stay together and cover each other. Arguing strategy was one thing; standing up for your mates quite another. He swung around the corner and aimed for the most logical direction that the bullets could have come from. There was a satisfying series of thuds, and a body fell just a few feet from him. That's one. He pulled back behind the corner, quickly reloading, then threw an empty can across the exposed gap. A short blast of shots follow, silenced when the gunman realized what Bodie was doing. Ah, up on the second floor. Should have noticed that earlier. Bodie then threw his jacket into the gap, which brought another few shots, then swung around, aiming up at the second-story window. When he was done, a body lay draped over the sill. And that's two. Time to get out and call for aid.
He started reaching for his jacket - and suddenly the world turned upside down, the ground and the sky switching places. He couldn't get his thoughts together, and his body wasn't responding to his mind's commands to take cover; instead, he remained motionless, something wet pooling under him.
A shape came into focus in his line of site - approaching him, pointing a gun. He wasn't sure why; he wouldn't be able to move in the shape he was in. What the hell - last man standing. There must've been a third shooter, who'd come round behind them. McKay must've been right about waiting too long. How did I miss that?
He was starting to get cold, and time was slowing down. So this was how it would end. He'd never really thought about what death would look like before; no time to. Bad luck; he'd actually liked a good part of what he'd seen about CI5. There's a lot to be done, that I could have done there. I think...
The Cow... won't be very happy about this.
The figure pulled the trigger.
===========
Nature, being nature, neither plays favorites nor completely condemns. After all, the right, final day had been close, and very close for one chrysalis - which had landed just so.
A seam opened slowly but surely, following a pattern established over millennia. A head poked through the crack, then limbs and folded wings. Maneouvering was difficult from the forest floor, but it would have taken more than location to stop the process.
Finally the butterfly was free, but immobile after the effort, its wings still soft and folded.
===========
Impatient, Doyle started to twirl his thumbs together just below Cowley's line of sight as the man went on. Christ, the Met's seconding me to some daft temporary assignment. And here comes the clincher...
Cowley's door burst open, breaking into Cowley's pitch and Doyle's thoughts. Rather than a threat, it was a tall, slim, dark-haired man who strode in. Not screaming, not frantic: he was cool, calm, and collected, but not about to be stopped. The newcomer prowled to Cowley's desk and dropped a folder onto it. A flustered secretary bustled in after him.
"Sir. We have the proof. We know they're trading drugs for guns. But Murphy says we're not going in. Why can't we just - oh." He looked at Doyle, first noticing his presence then sizing him up. Doyle stared back, hard, not intimidated in the least.
"Well, then, there's company round. Bringing in some new choirboys, I see. Shall I just wait outside then, sir?"
Something in Doyle wanted to laugh, his blood racing a bit at the challenge despite his instant dislike. *He's* got bollocks. Clearly a royal pain in the arse, but not afraid to speak his mind... I like that.
The clouds across Cowley's face promised great storms later. "Bodie, we may have not had a specific discussion about appropriate behavior, but we will be having it soon. Very soon." His gaze switched to the secretary. "And Willis, we will be having a discussion very soon as well. Now I would like to continue business in my office, if the two of you do not mind?"
"Yes, sir." Two employees, one more chastened than the other, left the office.
"My apologies for the interruption, Mr. Doyle. That is not the standard here."
"Of course not, sir. I didn't think that standard at all." Doyle actually hadn't thought that, from what he'd seen. CI5 had been nothing if not professional.
"But back to the point: we would like you to work with us, Doyle. In a permanent position, as an agent."
"Permanent, sir?" That's a surprise.
"Yes. I've seen your files; I've studied your work. This is an elite squad. It will protect in ways that front-line forces can't. I know not only what you can do but what you want to do. And you have both the ability and the desire."
Cowley continued, standing with Doyle. "This position - this organisation - will allow you to go places, serve in a way, that you never have before.
"The offer stands. But it will not stand forever. Think hard."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Cowley. I appreciate your time. Thank you for considering me."
Doyle couldn't get out of the building fast enough, for trying very hard not to laugh before he'd cleared the grounds. He had the feeling that "Bodie" would get a talking to, but that there'd be no serious repercussions. And if someone could stand up to a commanding officer like that - maybe CI5 was different, was a chance to get something done.
==================
The minister's voice rumbled over the bent heads as he intoned last rites over the coffin.
Doyle thought back to the freckled face and unruly red hair which now lay under the heavy wooden lid, the kid whom he'd identified with – and who he was sure would have been able to leave the gang and done something with himself. Anger stiffened his back, and he thrust his hands into the suit pockets, pushing into Cowley's business card.
CI5. He pulled it out of the pocket. GEORGE COWLEY stared back at him, but it was Bodie and his rush into the office that he thought about, both angry and amused. What kind of bleeding sod walks into an office like that and mouths off at his superior?
One who isn't content if he can't get things done.
One who is going to make sure they *do* get done.
One whom it might be an honour to work with.
Later, as the few mourners made their way past the cemetery gates, one of the groundskeepers noticed a last man, with strikingly curly hair, step up to the grave. The figure paused for a last look down, then turned and strode away. "God bless ya, sir, and godspeed," he muttered, then turned back to his raking.
==================
"Bodie." Cowley raised his eyes from his paperwork. "Glad you decided to join us. Now, if it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience, could you take a seat, please?"
"Yes, sir." Panther-like, Bodie poured his frame into one of the chairs opposite the massive desk. Attentive and respectful, he still projected a readiness to spring and devour.
"Now, 3.7, I'm sending you out with 4.5 - "
"Doyle, sir? Bobby the Choirboy? With all due respect, sir, he's still in his nappies, liable to get us both killed - "
"That's enough, 3.7. You will go on this case and you will go with 4.5. This is neither a solo job or an option. Understand?"
"Understood, sir."
"Good, then. I will brief both of you on particulars this afternoon, when 4.5 is back in the office. Dismissed, 3.7."
"Sir - "
"Dismissed, 3.7."
"Yes, sir." The panther glided up and slipped from the office, a line of indignation down his spine.
Trust me, lad; he's stronger than you give him credit for, and he's more like you than you think. Don't worry, I'll do you right - it will just take a little more time.
Cowley paused just briefly, his gaze roaming over the neat piles of folders lining one side of the desk. The one marked 'Raymond Doyle' sat atop the 'acquired' pile; he moved on to another labeled 'Andrew Preston.'
===========
"We may as well make a run for it, 3.7. They just have us pinned down, we can get out. Here, we're sitting ducks and they know it; if we stay, they'll just close in."
"No. We stay here, we wait."
"And if we stay here, we're dead!"
"And what would you know - or did you forget to mention your extensive special operations experience in your personnel file?" A little unfair, but Bodie wanted to end the conversation.
"Well, sunshine," Doyle's voice bit on the word, "I qualified higher than you did with firearms. Or did you forget *that* little fact?" Doyle paused, as he noticed the slight surprise at being challenged flicker across the blue eyes. Good. About time sometime told the idiot off. "Look - there's no time for this right now. We've been assigned to each other as partners. Let's act like partners then and end the situation.
"One of the snipers has to be in the second story window. If you cross the alley, and I cover you, you should be able to get into position to take him out of commission."
Bodie again seemed taken aback, but quickly hid his surprise at the obvious solution he hadn't thought of. "The fire we draw will locate the second man, so we can triangulate his position and take him out easily. And then we can get out of here." A hint of a smile teased the corners of his eyes. "I think I could learn to love you, 4.5. Fer yer fine mind, of course, not just yer body." A peace offering of sorts.
"Berk - shut it and concentrate. I'm set to see one Miss Julia Johns tonight, and I intend to be there." Offering accepted.
"Sure, sweetheart; you do that and miss out on the offer of a lifetime. But there's one problem with your little plan. It won't really work."
"What? Why?"
"You qualified higher than everyone else in firearms. You take out the sniper; I'll cover you."
==============
Cowley closed the file in his hands and sat back in his chair, musing.
Bodie and Doyle were turning out to be his best pairing by far. Oh, they poked at and prodded each other, but on a basic level they understood - and, better yet, trusted - each other. It had taken some time, and some adjustments, but Bodie ran much calmer these days and Doyle finally had some trust in what CI5 aimed to accomplish. Almost like a married couple settling in.
"Even better than your usual, George," he smiled to himself. "But don't let them know that."
He turned back to his file and picked up from where he had stopped reading. There was work to be done.
==============
Given time, everything falls into place, as it always does. The great spotted wings, spread to their full span, had hardened into their final shape.
Ready to face the world, the butterfly flapped one, twice, the wings glorious.
Now confident, it took off and flew away into the world, creating the slightest breeze...
......................................
Title: Butterfly Effect
Author:
golden_bastetSlash or Gen: Gen (sorry! It wasn't supposed to be originally, LOL)
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: ProsLib (?)
Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above): Golden Bastet
Disclaimer: The Professionals is owned by Avengers Mk1 Productions and London Weekend Television; I lay no claims, I just write goofiness about the characters.
Notes: I've never seen an actual episode... but I thought I'd take a stab at it anyway.
This isn't an out-and-out literally scary Halloween story, but more about things that might - or might not - have been. "There but for the grace of God," and such.
Thanks very much to
bornof_sorrow for her help with the characterizations and the Brit-speak. Any errors and unintentional shifts in the space-time continuum are, of course, mine. :^D
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Date: 2010-10-31 11:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-02 02:08 am (UTC)And "pre-slash" - I like that!
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Date: 2010-10-31 11:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-02 02:09 am (UTC)And you just showed me a slightly different way this could be read - hmmm...
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Date: 2010-11-01 09:06 am (UTC)I'd say Oh, you must watch the eps, the lads are ace!, but I suspect this was part of Not-My-Fandom...? If not, then you must watch the eps, the lads are ace! *g* And write some more Prosfic, of course... Thank you!
ETA (for stoopid finger hitting post before I meant it too)
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Date: 2010-11-02 02:12 am (UTC)And the box set is 80% off at amazon.co.uk...
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Date: 2010-11-01 12:57 pm (UTC)Apart from the interest of the plot alternatives, I enjoyed the description of the jungle and the golden chrysalis as a contrast to the mundane streets of London.
I'm also amazed at how well you manage to keep within canon if you've never seen an actual episode. With no introductory episode - the lads and CI5 just *are* from the beginning - and even some inconsistency in what we learn from the eps, there is a wonderfully wide scope for interpretation.
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Date: 2010-11-02 02:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-01 01:44 pm (UTC)I could easily picture Doyle backing out of joining CI5 on the premises you gave. But of course I like the second version better ;)
I like your writing style, as well. Flows along nicely and is very enjoyable to read. It would be lovely to read more Pros stories by you. Thanks for sharing!
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Date: 2010-11-02 02:16 am (UTC)And I do hope to write some more at some point...
Thanks for reading!
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Date: 2010-11-01 05:57 pm (UTC)Really enjoyed it, thank you.
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Date: 2010-11-02 02:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-01 07:36 pm (UTC)I think you have them down, all of 'em. I love Doyle's cerebralism and Bodie's life force. He is a panther that man.
So this is how they met - I always wondered :D
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Date: 2010-11-02 02:19 am (UTC)The funniest thing is I can tell you the address of the Met station in Limehouse, the name of the pub (actually tavern) down the street, and the name and habitat of the butterfly... Obsessive, much?
And thank you again for the beta. :^D
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Date: 2010-11-01 10:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-02 02:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-01 10:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-02 02:26 am (UTC)..and: *great* username.
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Date: 2010-11-02 02:00 pm (UTC)