The Standard Disclaimer: Danny Bilson and Paul De Meo own The Sentinel, darn them, so I’m not making squat from this story.

Rating: PG-13 (violence).

Date of Creation: Sections 1-3 - 2001; Section 4 - September 22, 2002. Minor revision to correct an oversight: October 30, 2003.

Archiving: Ok.

Author’s note: Ok, after waffling about whether to write a third Repercussions story, and, in fact, originally including sections 1-3 of this one in The Gathering Storm (Pt. 1 of The Darkning Storm Saga), I finally decided to separate it out and make it it’s own story (and write the new section). Mostly because most of what’s here applies to more than just The Darkning Storm Saga. This is, like the first two Repercussions stories, part of “my” general mythology. I apologize to the readers for doing this to you, but I finally realized this is for the best.

By the way, this isn’t really a story. It’s just a couple of incidents too short to do anything else with, but too important to my mythology not to do something with.

As usual, not beta’d. Any mistakes, blah, blah.

REPERCUSSIONS III:

UNBEKNOWNST

By De Engi

“Unbeknownst to the princess, but knownst to us, danger lurks...”

Opening Narrative

Spaceballs

I

March, 1997

          Veronica Sarris was led into the office of her new psychiatrist under guard and in handcuffs. She was a small, plain woman with sand-colored hair who exuded a strength and determination that belied her delicate build and features. That strength and determination - combined with paranoia and psychopathic tendencies - had landed her here, at Washington State Psychiatric Hospital.

          The ex-demolitions expert had been here before, after being discharged from the Navy for mental instability. She had been released from the facility in July of 1995. She had then moved to Cascade, Washington in order to pursue a vendetta against Detective James Ellison of the Cascade PD. She’d become a serial bomber, known as “The Switchman”, who’d blown up several buildings and had tried to blow up a bus full of people while stalking Detective Ellison, whom she held responsible for the deaths of her father and the other men under Ellison’s command while in the Army Special Forces. They’d been killed when Ellison’s commanding officer, Colonel Norman Oliver, fearing for the drug-smuggling operation he headed, had ordered the helicopter shot down that was supposed to be taking Ellison and his men into the jungles of Peru to negotiate sentry duty with the local tribes. Ellison had been the only survivor of the subsequent crash. Veronica had blamed Ellison for “letting” his men die. She was never convinced by the regret and pain Ellison had expressed for their deaths. Even the news story, months later, about Colonel Oliver’s culpability, had only dampened her hatred, not dispelled it. She’d merely added the deceased Oliver to her “shit-list”. After her capture, Sarris, once more declared not sane, had been sent back here, where she was now officially under the care of the man sitting behind the desk.

           The guard placed her into the seat facing that desk, nodded at the doctor, and left the room to take up a station on the other side of the closed door. Doctor/patient confidentiality prevented him from staying in the room, despite his misgivings about this particular patient and her tendency toward violence. He figured the doctor had been warned, and would take proper precautions.

          Dr. Carlos Martinez, the psychiatrist, was a tall, thin, dark-haired and dark-eyed man. He was intelligent, and wealthy.

          He was also a Guide from a family that had birthed Guides for a thousand years. However, it had been many decades since any of the Guides had found or partnered with a Sentinel. And, although many of the traditions had been lost, some remained, to be passed from generation to generation in the hope that a Sentinel would finally be found.

          Carlos had succeeded.

          In October of 1995, Carlos had been assigned the case of a man accused of killing a girl on a bus. The tall, wiry, blond-haired, green-eyed man had claimed the girl was deliberately trying to deafen him by playing piercing music painfully loud. He’d stopped the music by strangling the girl with the headphone cord, then smashing in her skull with the portable CD player. He had been trying to kill the bus driver for - he said - trying to give him carbon monoxide poisoning from excessive exhaust fumes when the police showed up. He’d shown no remorse at all at his trial or the decision which placed him at W.S.P.H.

          Carlos had read the man’s file, taken his statement, and then proven - to himself only - that the man was a Sentinel.

          He’d gleefully become Lawrence Flynn’s Guide. Soon after, he’d paid to have Flynn’s death faked. Immediately thereafter, “Evan Gifford” had moved into the home of Carlos, his quiet wife, Pilar, and their three children. The family had been over-joyed.

                                                               ****************************************************

          Right now, Carlos, covering his surprise, closed the file he’d been perusing and looked up at the angry young woman before him. He’d just been assigned her case, and had read her file with interest.

          What really intrigued him, however, was something else. Something he’d recognized in her the minute she’d come through the door. Something which had surprised him greatly, and set his mind to making hurried plans.

          “Ms. Sarris, I’m Doctor Carlos Martinez, and I have a proposal for you.” Martinez told the woman. “One which will, in time, allow you to do many things you have wished to do, and many you have not even considered.”

          “Yeah?” Veronica sneered. “What kind of proposal?” Carlos smiled.

          “Did you know that you are a Guide...?”

II

February, 1999

          Dr. Martinez unlocked the door to the spartan room. The blonde woman on the bed stared unseeing at the ceiling. She might have been energetic and charismatic if it weren’t for the emptiness in her eyes.

          Carlos was studying the case file. Alexis Barnes, a.k.a. Alicia Bannister. Suspected of robbery and murder, both in Cascade, Washington, and in Sierra Verde, Mexico. Alex had originally had her breakdown in Sierra Verde, and no relatives had yet been found to take responsibility or make decisions for her, but because Alex was an American Citizen, she’d been transferred back here, to Washington State Psychiatric Hospital.

          Carlos had been assigned to Alex’s case after she’d been transferred back into the country after losing herself in an unusual “zone-out” - a kind of sensory fugue state or catatonia caused, in this case, by the radical over-sensitization of all her senses in a “Sentinel’s Temple” in the jungle. Usually a zone-out happens when a Sentinel focuses too much on input from one sense and loses touch with everything else. The resulting black-out can be dangerous if it happens while driving, for example, or if the victim goes so deep as to stop breathing. However, in this case, the statuesque blonde had taken a drug to heighten her over-all awareness. The drug, combined with the sensory deprivation found in a sacred pool in the temple, was supposed to induce a kind of “vision-quest”, wherein she was supposed to examine her own inner self and motivations. However, untrained and without a Guide - or guidance - Alex had not understood what the true purpose of the temple and the drug was. She’d been seduced by the beauty of the ultra-heightened senses, and had taken a second dose of the drug, then entered the sacred pool again. The resulting over-load of her senses had driven her insane.

          Carlos knew none of this, but, as he read through the file - which also contained, among other things, the incident report from Cascade, Washington detailing the little strip-tease she’d done when, supposedly, she’d crashed her car because oncoming headlights had been painfully bright, and had then jumped out of the vehicle and begun taking off her clothes because they hurt - he tried to hide his excitement. As he read further, Carlos had recognized immediately what she was and what had happened. And he knew exactly what to do about it - after all, he had a Guide, Victoria Ferris, once the “deceased” Veronica Sarris.

          “My dear Sentinel,” Carlos whispered to himself, “I think I may have a solution to your problem...”

III

Within a Year After “The Press Conference”

          After the press conference in which Blair had declared himself and his research a fraud in order to protect Ellison from the publicity that almost cost them their lives - and almost allowed a hitman to escape - Captain Simon Banks had offered Blair the chance to go to the police academy in order to become Jim’s official partner, instead of simply being a civilian observer.

          The next week (after a busy week which included he and Jim finally settling their problems, Blair discovering he had a half-brother, and being forced into an agreement with the President of the United States which allowed them to continue doing their jobs in exchange for yearly testing and experiments and occasional assignments which would utilize their talents), Blair had met with officials from Rainier University and Berkshire publishing. Fearing lawsuits because Blair’s thesis was never actually submitted or defended (and had even been quoted out of context), both institutions handed the young anthropologist official apologies and copies of the letters of resignation of three University staffers - including Chancellor Edwards’ - and two publishing company employees - including Sid Graham’s. They had then offered to re-instate Blair.

          Blair had, after some thought, taken Banks up on his offer, instead.

          Then, halfway through his training, Blair had washed out. Not because of the academic studies (after spending most of his life in school, of course he’d excelled at that), but because his unorthodox methods bent - or broke - too many rules, because he couldn’t manage to meet the physical fitness requirements (he’d flunked the obstacle course), and because he just could not bring himself to become proficient with a firearm.

          “I’m so sorry, Jim.” He’d said, apologizing over and over again after he’d told the Sentinel the bad news. He had not been able to meet the larger man’s eyes, sure that Ellison would think him weak - too weak to continue as his Guide. But here he’d finally underestimated his friend - and the connection between a Sentinel and his Guide.

          Jim had put a sympathetic hand on Blair’s shoulder, and said,

          “Chief, you tried your best, right?” Blair had looked up, startled.

          “Geez, man, of course I did!” Blair blurted.

          “Then there’s nothing to be sorry for.” Jim had told him. “You’re the best partner I’ve ever worked with, but that doesn’t mean you’d make a great cop in thetraditional sense.” Ellison had smiled at Sandburg. “In fact, you’re a better partnerbecause you’re unconventional. So I guess that just means you’re gonna have to go get your Ph.D and continue to be an observer. We’ll find a way to make it stick. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.” The older man had finished with a casual shrug. Blair had allowed himself to be cheered by that.

          “Destiny, huh?” Blair teased, surprised because Jim didn’t usually ascribe to such things as Fate or the supernatural. On the other hand, the incident which allowed them to settle their differences, and Molly the Ghost, among other things,would tend to plant seeds of doubt in one’s mind. And, while Jim might be stubborn, he wasn’t stupid. At least, he tended to learn from his mistakes.

          Three months later, he’d gotten his doctorate, having changed his thesis to the “study of closed societies” idea that he’d gotten his observer’s pass for.

          A year after that, he and Jim had discussed their living arrangements. Although they got along pretty well as room mates in Jim’s loft, they’d both agreed that, if they ever wanted to begin mature, long term relationships with women, they couldn’t continue the “if I have my girlfriend over, I’ll leave the porch-light on” system that they had now. That, combined with the annoyance of having to contend with the knowing looks they got anytime they had to tell anyone they lived together, along with all the “little annoying habits” that can break up a relationship that exists in close quarters (although Jim had joked at the time about how he and Blair had actually lasted longer than Jim’s marriage to Carolyn Plummer), had convinced them that living together was no longer good enough for them. Although their friendship was still as strong as ever, they’d both decided that Blair would move out. Having a good salary now as an official police consultant, and certified “expert witness” for court testimony in a couple of anthropology/sociology/psychology-related fields meant that Blair could now afford an apartment of his own. However, they’d also realized that they didn’t want to be too far apart, either. The result was that Blair moved into the apartment across the hall from the loft, although he continued to spend a great deal of time in the loft. It was a good arrangement, and definitely looked like it would work long-term.

IV

One Year After “The Press Conference”

          Almost midnight.

          The young, auburn-haired man sat in the stolen Grand Am and waited. He was used to waiting, having done a great deal of it in his twenty-five years, so he was no stranger to it. From sitting in the school principal’s office to Juvie to jail, he’d spent a lot of time waiting. It had given him a lot of time to think.

          Mostly, he’d thought about his life, and how crappy it was. And why. Was it because the Hartleys, his first adoptive family, had hated him so much that they’d let themselves die in a house fire just to get away from him? Or maybe it was because the Ensors had treated him like dirt, thereby finally forcing him to kill them just to make them stop? Could it have been his girlfriends, all of whom had mistreated him or cheated on him or done all of the other stupid things that made him beat them so they’d stop?

          No.

          No, the young man had finally realized that all those things had merely been catalysts. Triggers, if you will.

          No, the one thing that he could honestly say was the main reason his life was in the dumper was his mother.

          His biological mother, the slut, who’d abandoned him as a baby because she was too busy raising her other son. The other whore-son. The one she loved.

          She didn’t love him. No one loved him. They’d all abandoned him.

          But then, like a bolt out of the blue, he’d come up with the answer.

          And it was inspired by his half-brother, of all things. His half-brother who had all the things he should have had. All the love, all the intelligence, all the education, all the opportunities...

          And a Sentinel. Yes, Kevin Ensor - Kevin Hartely - Kevin Sandburgshould have had a Sentinel.

          And now he would.

          Kevin had spent the last year looking for one, preparing for one. He’d first changed his name in order to avoid capture by the police - he was named Kevin Sandburg, now, because he deserved it. He’d also read everything everyone - including (in a bit of irony that only made him more angry and more determined)Blair Sandburg’s Master’s thesis. Then he’d hacked into hospital databases around the country, looking for someone with the right combination of enhanced senses and peculiar reactions to medications and chemicals that marked them potentially a Sentinel. Then, by trickery and guile, he’d checked out anyone who fit the bill. But no one had.

          Until now.

          Now, here, in Billings, Montana, a brown-haired woman named Lena Westbrook resided as much within her own mind as in St. Dymphna Psychiatric Hospital, a huge, dark-stoned and imposing dwelling that lurked in a wide expanse of land several miles from the city.

          The sisters there cared for the poor unfortunates in their charge with unwavering patience and compassion, but surely, they’d be glad enough to be relieved of one such soul, Kevin figured.

          Besides, they didn’t know what the woman needed. He did.

          Kevin watched in suspense as headlights swept the empty countryside, heralding a car coming down the road. He’d planned this pretty carefully, but as with any plan, it was always possible that something would go wrong.

          Nothing did, however, as the car - the only one in over thirty minutes - hit the spot on the road where Kevin had spread the caltrops (three-sided spikes used mostly by the military to puncture the tires of enemy vehicles). The car’s tires blew as planned, and the vehicle swerved off the road, and into the soft shoulder of the highway.

          Before the car even came to rest, Kevin had flung open the door of his own vehicle, and was out and running across the highway.

          Brian Stillman moaned and clutched his head in both hands. He straightened up from his former position slumped over the steering wheel, and attempted to clear his head. It only partially worked, however, as something warm and sticky was in his eye. He reached up to wipe it away, only to be startled by a knock on the window. He started violently, then relaxed. He didn’t really remember what happened, and was not even fully coherent. Without thinking, he opened the car door, and tried to climb out. He was assisted in the endeavor by Kevin, who grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him bodily out of the automobile, to land in an ungraceful heap on the cold pavement. After a second’s abortive attempts to pull himself upright, Brian settled for blinking fuzzily up at the apparition looming above him.

          “Wh-who...?” He tried. Kevin gave him a smug, wicked smile.

          “Who am I?” Kevin sneered. “Your replacement.” And Kevin pulled a gun from the small of his back under his belt, aimed it at the head of the uncomprehending hospital orderly, and pulled the trigger.

          Brian’s sightless eyes stared up from the pavement, watching as Kevin quickly changed the two tires that had blown out due to the caltrops - one was the spare from the trunk of Brian’s car, the other tire Kevin had brought with him (he’d made sure of the make beforehand, of course).

          Kevin stared a moment at the corpse on the cold ground. He didn’t enjoy killing so much as saw it as a means to an end - elimination of a problem, be it adoptive parents who hated him or an orderly whose removal made way for Kevin himself to get something he needed and wanted. Kevin sighed and brought himself back to the business at hand. After all, time waited for no man...

          Kevin manhandled the corpse into the stolen Grand Am, started it up, positioned the dead orderly’s feet on the gas pedal, put it in drive, and let it head off into the brush. It would probably be days before anyone found it, he figured.

          Kevin pulled the lab coat from the back seat of his latest victim’s car, replaced the photo ID badge with one he’d made this afternoon, got into the dark-colored sedan, and carefully brought the car back onto the road.

          He drove off towards the hospital. “Brian Stillman” would be bringing a guest out in the morning. And Kevin Sandburg would have his Sentinel.

--The End–