2007-08-19: DF: Not Allowed To Die



Summary: No rest for the wicked.

Dark Future Date: August 19th, 2009

Log Title Not Allowed To Die

Location High above New York…

"He's flatlined! Hit him again! Hit him again, damnit!"


Jack's body bucks upward as hundreds of Joules of electricity flow through the steel electrodes that have been thrust through the skin of his chest.

A medic pounds the defibrillator with his fist, then shrugs. "That's the highest setting." His voice isn't quite apologetic. "Why are we trying so hard to save him, anyway? It's not like he's ever going to…" he trails off, then shrugs.

Whatever it is that the medic was thinking, chances are good that Jack wouldn't be able to do it if his heart was still beating. The tourniquet around the stump of his right leg is soaked and the floor beneath it is slick with blood.

A man in a black suit, black tie, and heavy glasses leans down to grip Jack's face roughly around the jaw. Though he speaks to the medic, he continues to sneer down at the terrorist. "You'll shock him again. And again and again. This man isn't allowed to die until I say he dies." With a push, he sends Jack's head bouncing against the metal floor of the helicopter.

The medic blanches, but he does as he's ordered. Time and time again he flips the switch on the defibrillator, and time and time again Jack's body writhes and flops in response. The cardiac monitor he's hooked to spikes and flattens out each time. It isn't working.

"It isn't working!" The man in the glasses growls needlessly. He waves for the medic to stop, then slaps Jack across the face with the back of his hand. It feels good, so he does it again. And again.

The man in the glasses is sweating and puffing from the effort of his blows when he leans away. Carefully, he presses his mussed hair back into place. His eyes squeeze shut for several moments and he takes deep breaths in and out through his mouth to calm himself. "Get over here." He says, crooking a finger, beckoning without opening his eyes.

The girl does as she's told. She always does as she's told. It's all she knows how to do. She slinks like an animal, hugging the walls of the chopper and avoiding brushing or making eye contact with anyone. She kneels down beside the man in the glasses and waits expectantly.

The man in the glasses curls his upper lip into a vicious, vindictive expression. He grabs the useless defibrillator's wires and yanks the electrodes free from the flesh of Jack's chest. "Light him up," he snarls.

The girl does as she's told. She holds her hands an inch or so above Jack's body. Above his heart. Her brow furrows and she bites her lip as she sends jolts of electricity surging through him that put the defibrillator to shame.

The response on the cardiac monitor is appropriately dramatic, but in the end it settles to a flat, dead line.

"We don't have time for this," the man in the glasses mutters. "Give him everything you've got. He'll breathe again or I'll watch him burn."

The medical personnel are cowed. Some of them know this man and some of them don't, but all of them fear him.

The girl bows her head and her fingers curve into claws. She doesn't hesitate. She only obeys. When her fingers straighten, a torrent of crackling, bluish-purple lighting shoots from her palms and sizzles against Jack's chest. A spasm shoots through both her body and his simultaneously.

The Irishman's corpse bounces wildly against the deck and the skin of his torso darkens, then takes on an oily appearance. The smell is… unpleasant.

The cardiac monitor settles from it's own crazily bucking arcs and pulses once. Again.

He breathes.

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