Title:      Tales Turned

Author:  Dusty Tyree

Rating:   P

Summary: Got to thinking what would’ve happened if the situation was reversed, and it was Blair who was in trouble with his senses.

Feedback: Always happy to get, on or off list.

Disclaimer: This is an amateur story written purely for the enjoyment of fans. The main characters do not belong to me. No copyright infringement intended to Pet Fly, or any other individuals or companies concerned.

Tables Turned:

by Dusty Tyree

Blair Sandburg sat in his office, the door locked in a vain attempt to keep the noises at bay.

He was sure he was going out of his mind.

He was hearing voices, voices he didn’t know.

It had started a little over four weeks ago, and had gradually become worse.

At first he’d been able to block out the noises and voices by concentrating on preparing his lessons for the classes he was teaching.   He had two this semester, and although he loved teaching, lately he’d become to dread the very thought of walking into the lecture hall and face the dozens of students.

He’d thought it was stress brought on by too much late-night reading in the library.   He had found such interesting data on his favourite subject. 

Sentinels!  Old-time warriors, mostly men, who had five enhanced senses.  As much as Blair had been able to find out, these men protected their chosen tribe, acting as scouts, leading the hunters to game in winter when storms made it almost impossible for ordinary men to track; forewarning of danger, either by enemies or weather.

Blair loved the idea of maybe finding a modern day sentinel, but he wasn’t very hopeful.  Modern society seemed to have no need for sentinels when sophisticated electronic equipment did the same jobs.

Now, however, it was almost more than he could bear even to read over his lessons, the pain behind his eyes threatening to make him scream in agony.

He was going mad. 

The youngest Anthropology Professor at Rainier University, with a bright future stretching before him, was going to end up in a padded room, screaming his lungs out because he couldn’t shut out those damn voices.

Not only voices, emotions too, had been crowding into his overtaxed brain.

Just this morning, Natalie, one of his brightest students, had bumped into him in the corridor, she’d been crying, her eyes red and swollen.

Blair had literally reeled back under the surge of fear and loss that the girl had projected.

He’d barely managed to stay upright as the girl had apologised, then ran past him.

He clutched his head in both hands as the loudspeaker blared a message:

“Will everyone in the building please proceed outside to the courtyard.  This is not a drill. Everyone proceed to the courtyard immediately.”

Blair moaned.  “No! No!  Not again.”

This was the third such announcement in the past two days. 

The other times, he’d gone outside with the rest, and had been tormented by the emotions and thoughts of the crowds of excited and fearful students.

Apparently some psycho had been sending bomb threats and of course, they had to be treated with caution.

Blair started to get up, then slumped back into his chair.

The hell with it, if he was going to go insane, he might as well stay here and if this time the threat was real. So be it!

He couldn’t stand feeling like this any longer.

He tried to shut out the noises of hurrying feet and the commands of the speaker to walk, don’t run...

Right!  As though anyone was going to walk when they could be blown up at any minute.

He tried to clear his mind, maybe if he could mediate, he would be able to sit this out.

After a few minutes, he gave a soft moan.  It wasn’t working.

He put his head down on the desk and closed his eyes, willing the pain to go away.  For a moment it seemed to work as a soft grey blanket covered him from head to toe.

This was better.  Nothing. No noise, no hurtful emotions battering at his... his... what!  Barriers!  Did he have barriers?

He began to wander dreamily.  Where had he heard that before?

No, not heard. Read!  He’d read about people... people with enhanced emotional sensibilities, who could make barriers against the input of day-today living.

What were they called?

Empaths!  He’d read about empaths. 

Was he an empath?

Empaths... that had a nice, sane ring to it.

Empaths who worked with.... with... why couldn’t he remember?

Empaths with enhanced... enhanced....

Sentinels! 

Empaths worked with sentinels - he’d read that somewhere...

Sentinels could shield a person - an empath - save them from going insane.

Great!  He’d just found out that he could have empathic senses and that he would need a sentinel to help him  stay sane.

Wait. Had he read that, or just thought it in desperation?

Didn’t really matter.

Blair started to laugh which turned quickly into a moan of pain.

He’d never found any clue to anyone with more than a couple of enhanced senses, and now he was too far gone in his delusions to intensify his search.

Sentinels didn’t exist... so he was doomed to go insane.

That sucked, major league.

Maybe, if he could just stay like this, in this grey fog... things weren’t so bright and painful, here in this twilight...

Maybe....

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jim Ellison watched as the crowds exited Hargrove Hall, the building which appeared to be the bomber’s main target.

Just because the other two threats had been false alarms, this one might be real.

He had a gut feeling, that this time, it WAS the real thing.

He stretched out his hearing, listening for any hint of where the bomb, if it was a bomb, had been hidden.

He no longer found it strange, or even frightening, that he could hear things his other colleagues couldn’t.  He’d done a little searching on the web and found that there were people who had more than an average sense of smell and taste, they mostly worked in specialised jobs like the perfume industry and coffee production.

So he could hear better than the average person.  No big deal...really.

Although he had found that his sight seemed to be getting better than average as well, plus the odours around him every day were beginning to feel a bit intrusive.

He shrugged it off. Maybe being a cop was enhancing his senses that he needed in his job.

He was brought out of his reverie when Taggart, the Bomb Captain, jogged over to him.

“They’re still coming out of every door and some windows,” he said, with a grim smile. “I’m glad that these people have found a bit of self preservation.”

Jim nodded, knowing the other man was alluding to the first bomb threat, when they’d found some of the students, sitting around in a cellar, smoking pot, while the search went on around them.

He’d taken a grim pleasure in arresting them and making them go down to the police station until their angry parents had come to collect them.

“Found anything?” he asked.

Taggart shook his head.  “Not yet. Too much noise at the moment for the listening devices.”   He glanced at his watch. “According to the phone message, we have about thirty-five minutes before the timer goes off.”

“Yeah, if we can trust that bastard,” said Jim, a frown on his face as he stared at the building.

He turned to Taggart, “I’m going to make a sweep of the building, see if any of those stupid kids are down in the cellar again.”

“Okay, but be quick, Jim.  As you say we can’t trust this bastard.”

Ellison nodded and tightened the straps on his kelvar vest.  It wouldn’t protect him from a bomb blast, but it would protect him from a bullet if a sniper was looking to take out the rescue personnel, which had happened once or twice before.

He walked quickly into the main entrance, shepherding a last group of students out into the open, then stood for a moment, listening.

Nothing nearby.

He moved further into the building, stopping on each floor to listen for any movement.

As he moved into the first floor, he heard... something...

Frowning, he stretched out his hearing and sniffed the air.

There was a faint thumping noise and the scent of a human body, not unpleasant, but unsettling.

Ellison moved towards the sound and stopped outside a closed door.  Trying the handle he discovered it was locked.

Now had someone locked it from the outside when they’d exited the building, or was it locked from the inside by a person not wanting to be found.

Drawing his gun, Jim raised his foot and kicked at the door. 

It surrendered to the force, the flimsy lock shattering and the door crashed open.

Jim didn’t know quite what to expect, but the sight that met his eyes, stilled him with surprise.

A figure, which, from the clothes he was wearing, Jim took to be a young man, was slumped over the desk, hands clasped over his ears, his head  lying on the top of some lesson books, a mane of thick curly hair obscuring the features.

Sensing no threat, Jim holstered his weapon and bent over the figure, lifting the heavy curls from the face, as he checked the pulse in his throat.

It was beating, very slowly.  The kid was either doped up to the hilt, or unconscious.

Sniffing, Jim could detect no hint of drugs, and he attempted to waken the man.

“Hey, kid... come on...wake up.  We have to get out of here.”

A slight moan was the only response.

“Come on,” Jim braced himself and lifted the other man to his feet, pulling a slack arm over his shoulder.

“Too late for me...” a whisper of sound.

“What?  Too late for what?”

“Sanity,” then the figure slumped again and Jim had to catch him as he headed for the floor.

“Great!” muttered Jim, as he lifted the figure into his arms and headed for the door and down to the main entrance, hoping that he still had time to get them both out of the building.

He breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he made it out into the sunshine and looked round for somewhere to put down his burden.

He heard a shout as Taggart ran towards him.

“Jim, get further away... we’ve found the bomb and the timer is down to two minutes.”

Ellison tightened his hold on the form in his arms and hurried after his colleague, who didn’t stop until they were well away from the front of the building and behind the police cars.

Taggart opened the rear door of his car and Jim manoeuvred the limp body onto the seat.

As he straightened up he found his arm restricted, and looking down he found the rescued man’s hand clinging onto his forearm.

Jim tried to ease the grip away, but the young man shivered and curled closer to the strong arm he held.

“It’s okay, kid.  You’re safe now, we’ll get you to the hospital and see what’s wrong.”  Jim’s voice was low and soothing, but the young man still clung to his anchor.

Jim tried again to break the hold, but the kid whispered.  “Not safe... don’t go...”

“You are safe now...” began Jim.

“No.... if I let go... lost... insane...”

Jim found this conversation very weird as the man, who looked little more than a teenager, didn’t open his eyes.

“I have to go,” said Jim, then added, “I’ll come back as soon as I’ve seen to this mess.”

Now why the hell did I say that, he asked himself.

“No... lost....”

Taggart came up beside him.  “He okay, Jim?”

“I don’t know.  He won’t let go, says he’s lost.”

Taggart leaned into the car to see the youngster curled around Jim’s arm, his face was white and exhausted, dark circles marring the youth of his complexion.

“Poor kid. Wonder what happened?”

“I don’t have a clue, but I can’t stay and hold his hand.  I have work to do.”

Jim was starting to get irritated. He didn’t want to cause any further distress to the obviously scared man, but he had a job to finish and reports to write. More importantly, to look for the madman who thought nothing of blowing up a building full of people.

“Stay for a few minutes. I’ll call you when we’ve got the bomb out, the timer was wrong, Blake has defused it, so you have a little time.”

“Okay,” agreed Jim reluctantly and eased himself down beside the man he’d rescued.

He found himself stroking the back of the curly head.

“I don't know what demons you’re seeing, Chief, but I hope we can find someone to help you.”

Jim Ellison, a Senior Detective in the Major Crime Unit, didn’t know it then, but his own life was about to be drastically, and permanently changed.

~~~~~~~~~~~

(c) Dusty Tyree 13 September 2005