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Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc. and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.
This story takes place after the Season Three Finale. It was inspired by Ra-Chell's "Revenge" and is somewhat of a response to her story, in that I do not think Jarod needs Miss Parker to do his dirty work.
Sequel to: Firsthand Evidence. Read that first.
Murderer Of The Day
by paula h
Some time had passed since Jarod's last escape from The Centre. He carried the wounds in his soul, deliberately choosing not to think about it while awake. The demons came in his sleep.
The worst dreams had a hundred pretenders, looking just like him, standing in a row. One would suddenly turn old and die horribly, only to be replaced by a small child who grew up in the time it took for another to die. The screams of the dying became Jarod's own as he woke. He slept little.
The dreams seemed all too real. The Centre could not be allowed to to turn them into reality. Jarod returned to Donoterase and found it abandoned. A data search gave him part of the information he wanted, the names of men responsible for day-to-day operations. Jarod found one of those men.
Jarod pointed his gun at the man. It vibrated with a rage that threatened to drive all thought from his mind. "Don't move. Don't even blink," Jarod growled. The intensity of his anger surprised Jarod, but not it's source. This man had to be held accountable for his crimes. The Centre and it's people spoke of higher purpose, while they consumed people's lives. They saw themselves as apart and immune from retribution. In the back of his mind a small voice kept repeating, 'Don't kill him; you'll regret it."' Jarod visualized crushing his conscience, like a cricket, under his heel.
The man forced a smile. "Am I in the presence of the famous Jarod?" in a calm, even tone.
"You remember me?" Jarod answered in a flat voice. He concentrated on not pulling the trigger.
"Of course I remember you. To what do I owe this honor? And do you think that weapon is really necessary? Brute force is rather overdone, and we are civilized adults. I don't consider myself dangerous at all." The smile broadened benignly.
The gun lowered slightly. Jarod looked at the neatly tailored suit; the crisp white button-down shirt; the silk tie. From his polished wingtips to his graying hair he was the picture of an aging professor; nothing to fear or despise.
Jarod turned his attention to the confused woman that the man had been towing to his car. She was obviously a street person, possibly mentally unbalanced, but no danger at all. The woman's clothes were nondescript. In one hand she held a few crisp dollars; in the other was a plastic shopping bag filled with leftovers from the dumpster behind a nearby restaurant. She seemed afraid of Jarod and inched closer to the man. The gun lowered a bit more. Jarod's conversation with the man did not interest her as much as the two dogs arguing under the street light. They had a bone between them and both were determined not to give it up. She started moving toward the light. The man snatched at her arm.
The gun came back up. "I said don't move!" Jarod barked. The others started. The woman focused on Jarod and his gun. He had frightened her. Jarod calmed his voice, "It's alright. Go. Get out of here." She took a few small steps, then hesitated, looking from man to man. Jarod was more commanding, "I said go on...Go!"
The woman turned; gave the men a last look; and disappeared into the shadows. She was still clutching the bag of refuse and the money.
Jarod focused on the man. He forced himself not to think about the things he had seen on the DSAs of Donoterase. Mr. Raines was in charge of the project; had selected the surrogates; but this man helped with the details. He was responsible for testing, impregnation, medication, and disposal. The thoughts of what he had done, watched, or ordered done, threatened Jarod's reason. He took a shaky breath. "We're taking a short ride." The man looked uneasy. "Don't worry. I'm turning you and some interesting information over to the authorities. They can decide what to do with you."
The man tried to take the advantage. "Jarod, you're looking at this the wrong way. We've made immense progress, in our research. You can see that. The sacrifices are small in comparison. Most of our subjects would never have contributed to Society. Their use was regrettable but necessary. Look at what we've accomplished. What we can accomplish. If you could see..." Something about Jarod's face, or the way he gripped the gun, made the man stop. "Perhaps we can come to an agreement. There must be something you need or want?"
"I want the rest of the embryos. I don't want any more 'me's going through what I went through. I want all the ova and Dr. Moore's research destroyed."
"Now, Jarod, you know that's not possible. I don't have that kind of authority. I wouldn't do it if I did. It's valuable work. You... we have no right to destroy it."
"I have every right...I have EVERY RIGHT!" Jarod's voice rose toward hysteria, "You did this for Society? For Humanity? Who do you think you ARE?!" He stopped, he wanted to kill this man so badly it made him gag. "This conversation is over. Get into the car," Jarod ordered. Control required all his concentration.
The man reached slowly into his pocket and retrieved the car keys. He unlocked the door an made a show of slowly opening it. Jarod urged him on, moving closer to the car. The man bent slightly to get in. His jacket fell open, concealing his left hand as he palmed a small gun. He straightened and pointed the gun at Jarod.
"Change of plans, Jarod," the smile returned. "I most definitely do not want to kill you but I will if you don't lower that gun." Jarod did not move. "We can stand like this all night, or we can have a civilized conversation." The gun lowered slightly. The man saw an opening. This was the same maleable Jarod they had all used at The Centre. He was still usable and, therefore, valuable. "Put the gun away and I'll do the same." Jarod brought the gun to his side but continued to hold it. "Close enough," the smile broadened. The man put his gun in his pocket. "You are an intelligent man. I appeal to that intelligence now. You have been a powerful asset and adversary. If you come back to The Centre of your own free will..."
"That's not going to happen," Jarod could barely understand what the man was saying through the blood pounding in his ears.
"The Centre is your world," the smile faded as the man worked at controlling Jarod. "Inevitably you'll do as they say." His left hand reached out for Jarod's gun. "It's time you realized that the pretenders are as much experiments as the clones. You think that you can be independent? Can use us? You are the tool."
Jarod's hands shook. Something inside was breaking.
In a low even voice the man said, "You are Centre property."
No! echoed in Jarod's brain. "No!" he yelled. Jarod watched the gun's muzzle come up; his finger convulsed on the trigger. The gun's small explosion sent a bullet into the man's shoulder. The man fell back against the car, his gun forgotten. His mouth moved but Jarod could hear only the sounds of the gun firing and the blood roaring in his head. The man turned to Jarod, his face filled with anger and surprise. Jarod thought he mouthed "You'll be sorry," but he would never be sure. The gun fired again. And again, and again, and again.
The man lay twitching on the ground. There were several wounds in his chest and a hole in the middle of his forehead; blood was spreading on the pavement. Somehow Jarod got his arm down and put the hot gun into his belt. He backed away until he hit a wall. Dizziness and nausea hit him, and he put his head between his knees. He could barely breathe.
He stood like that for several minutes, until the screaming silence cleared. Jarod forced himself upright on legs that still threatened to fold under him. He walked back to the body. It was still. He knew he needed to distance himself from this spot, from what he had done. He could not seem to move or turn away.
There was a voice behind him, "Got to admit it, Boy Wonder, I didn't know you had it in you. Cold blooded murder that is."
Jarod reached for his gun by reflex, then stopped himself, afraid of the overwhelming urge to use it again. He turned to face her and her gun, expecting to see a wicked grin. She was not smiling, "For a minute there I thought you were shot too."
Jarod shook his head. He turned back to the man; he could not look her in the eye. "Were you here the whole time?"
"Long enough to see you shoot an unarmed man."
"He had a gun."
"If you say so." She looked down at the body, "This is overkill, don't you think?"
"Yes." He tried to focus on the conversation.
"Don't let guilt get to you, Jarod. The Centre always has a spot for someone with a vicious streak."
Jarod winced but said nothing. Murder? Guilt? Yes to both. Vicious? He still remembered his savage elation when he saw the surprise on the man's face as the bullets hit him. The wave of power he felt knowing that the gun in his hand took the man's life. The emptiness after. The desire to feel the rush again.
"Shouldn't you be getting out of here?" she asked. Jarod turned toward her. She had lowered her gun; her face was grim. "I called for cleaners. I'll tell them it was you, but you'll pardon me if I leave out some details. That's assuming you intend to move." Jarod continued to look at her. "Now!!?" She motioned at him with her gun.
Jarod nodded, "Thank you, Parker."
"Don't thank me - ever - this isn't a favor to you. Dr. Abraham deserved retribution for Donoterase and for what he did to Eric Strand. I might have said the world is a safer place, if I hadn't seen your face when you killed him."
Jarod turned away from her and moved down the alley, faster and faster, until he was running. He expected Miss Parker to change her mind; to send the cleaners after him, or better, to put a bullet in his back. An execution for and execution. He knew it would not happen. The murderer of the day was him.
Feedback please!
This story takes place after the Season Three Finale. It was inspired by Ra-Chell's "Revenge" and is somewhat of a response to her story, in that I do not think Jarod needs Miss Parker to do his dirty work.
Sequel to: Firsthand Evidence. Read that first.
by paula h
Some time had passed since Jarod's last escape from The Centre. He carried the wounds in his soul, deliberately choosing not to think about it while awake. The demons came in his sleep.
The worst dreams had a hundred pretenders, looking just like him, standing in a row. One would suddenly turn old and die horribly, only to be replaced by a small child who grew up in the time it took for another to die. The screams of the dying became Jarod's own as he woke. He slept little.
The dreams seemed all too real. The Centre could not be allowed to to turn them into reality. Jarod returned to Donoterase and found it abandoned. A data search gave him part of the information he wanted, the names of men responsible for day-to-day operations. Jarod found one of those men.
Jarod pointed his gun at the man. It vibrated with a rage that threatened to drive all thought from his mind. "Don't move. Don't even blink," Jarod growled. The intensity of his anger surprised Jarod, but not it's source. This man had to be held accountable for his crimes. The Centre and it's people spoke of higher purpose, while they consumed people's lives. They saw themselves as apart and immune from retribution. In the back of his mind a small voice kept repeating, 'Don't kill him; you'll regret it."' Jarod visualized crushing his conscience, like a cricket, under his heel.
The man forced a smile. "Am I in the presence of the famous Jarod?" in a calm, even tone.
"You remember me?" Jarod answered in a flat voice. He concentrated on not pulling the trigger.
"Of course I remember you. To what do I owe this honor? And do you think that weapon is really necessary? Brute force is rather overdone, and we are civilized adults. I don't consider myself dangerous at all." The smile broadened benignly.
The gun lowered slightly. Jarod looked at the neatly tailored suit; the crisp white button-down shirt; the silk tie. From his polished wingtips to his graying hair he was the picture of an aging professor; nothing to fear or despise.
Jarod turned his attention to the confused woman that the man had been towing to his car. She was obviously a street person, possibly mentally unbalanced, but no danger at all. The woman's clothes were nondescript. In one hand she held a few crisp dollars; in the other was a plastic shopping bag filled with leftovers from the dumpster behind a nearby restaurant. She seemed afraid of Jarod and inched closer to the man. The gun lowered a bit more. Jarod's conversation with the man did not interest her as much as the two dogs arguing under the street light. They had a bone between them and both were determined not to give it up. She started moving toward the light. The man snatched at her arm.
The gun came back up. "I said don't move!" Jarod barked. The others started. The woman focused on Jarod and his gun. He had frightened her. Jarod calmed his voice, "It's alright. Go. Get out of here." She took a few small steps, then hesitated, looking from man to man. Jarod was more commanding, "I said go on...Go!"
The woman turned; gave the men a last look; and disappeared into the shadows. She was still clutching the bag of refuse and the money.
Jarod focused on the man. He forced himself not to think about the things he had seen on the DSAs of Donoterase. Mr. Raines was in charge of the project; had selected the surrogates; but this man helped with the details. He was responsible for testing, impregnation, medication, and disposal. The thoughts of what he had done, watched, or ordered done, threatened Jarod's reason. He took a shaky breath. "We're taking a short ride." The man looked uneasy. "Don't worry. I'm turning you and some interesting information over to the authorities. They can decide what to do with you."
The man tried to take the advantage. "Jarod, you're looking at this the wrong way. We've made immense progress, in our research. You can see that. The sacrifices are small in comparison. Most of our subjects would never have contributed to Society. Their use was regrettable but necessary. Look at what we've accomplished. What we can accomplish. If you could see..." Something about Jarod's face, or the way he gripped the gun, made the man stop. "Perhaps we can come to an agreement. There must be something you need or want?"
"I want the rest of the embryos. I don't want any more 'me's going through what I went through. I want all the ova and Dr. Moore's research destroyed."
"Now, Jarod, you know that's not possible. I don't have that kind of authority. I wouldn't do it if I did. It's valuable work. You... we have no right to destroy it."
"I have every right...I have EVERY RIGHT!" Jarod's voice rose toward hysteria, "You did this for Society? For Humanity? Who do you think you ARE?!" He stopped, he wanted to kill this man so badly it made him gag. "This conversation is over. Get into the car," Jarod ordered. Control required all his concentration.
The man reached slowly into his pocket and retrieved the car keys. He unlocked the door an made a show of slowly opening it. Jarod urged him on, moving closer to the car. The man bent slightly to get in. His jacket fell open, concealing his left hand as he palmed a small gun. He straightened and pointed the gun at Jarod.
"Change of plans, Jarod," the smile returned. "I most definitely do not want to kill you but I will if you don't lower that gun." Jarod did not move. "We can stand like this all night, or we can have a civilized conversation." The gun lowered slightly. The man saw an opening. This was the same maleable Jarod they had all used at The Centre. He was still usable and, therefore, valuable. "Put the gun away and I'll do the same." Jarod brought the gun to his side but continued to hold it. "Close enough," the smile broadened. The man put his gun in his pocket. "You are an intelligent man. I appeal to that intelligence now. You have been a powerful asset and adversary. If you come back to The Centre of your own free will..."
"That's not going to happen," Jarod could barely understand what the man was saying through the blood pounding in his ears.
"The Centre is your world," the smile faded as the man worked at controlling Jarod. "Inevitably you'll do as they say." His left hand reached out for Jarod's gun. "It's time you realized that the pretenders are as much experiments as the clones. You think that you can be independent? Can use us? You are the tool."
Jarod's hands shook. Something inside was breaking.
In a low even voice the man said, "You are Centre property."
No! echoed in Jarod's brain. "No!" he yelled. Jarod watched the gun's muzzle come up; his finger convulsed on the trigger. The gun's small explosion sent a bullet into the man's shoulder. The man fell back against the car, his gun forgotten. His mouth moved but Jarod could hear only the sounds of the gun firing and the blood roaring in his head. The man turned to Jarod, his face filled with anger and surprise. Jarod thought he mouthed "You'll be sorry," but he would never be sure. The gun fired again. And again, and again, and again.
The man lay twitching on the ground. There were several wounds in his chest and a hole in the middle of his forehead; blood was spreading on the pavement. Somehow Jarod got his arm down and put the hot gun into his belt. He backed away until he hit a wall. Dizziness and nausea hit him, and he put his head between his knees. He could barely breathe.
He stood like that for several minutes, until the screaming silence cleared. Jarod forced himself upright on legs that still threatened to fold under him. He walked back to the body. It was still. He knew he needed to distance himself from this spot, from what he had done. He could not seem to move or turn away.
There was a voice behind him, "Got to admit it, Boy Wonder, I didn't know you had it in you. Cold blooded murder that is."
Jarod reached for his gun by reflex, then stopped himself, afraid of the overwhelming urge to use it again. He turned to face her and her gun, expecting to see a wicked grin. She was not smiling, "For a minute there I thought you were shot too."
Jarod shook his head. He turned back to the man; he could not look her in the eye. "Were you here the whole time?"
"Long enough to see you shoot an unarmed man."
"He had a gun."
"If you say so." She looked down at the body, "This is overkill, don't you think?"
"Yes." He tried to focus on the conversation.
"Don't let guilt get to you, Jarod. The Centre always has a spot for someone with a vicious streak."
Jarod winced but said nothing. Murder? Guilt? Yes to both. Vicious? He still remembered his savage elation when he saw the surprise on the man's face as the bullets hit him. The wave of power he felt knowing that the gun in his hand took the man's life. The emptiness after. The desire to feel the rush again.
"Shouldn't you be getting out of here?" she asked. Jarod turned toward her. She had lowered her gun; her face was grim. "I called for cleaners. I'll tell them it was you, but you'll pardon me if I leave out some details. That's assuming you intend to move." Jarod continued to look at her. "Now!!?" She motioned at him with her gun.
Jarod nodded, "Thank you, Parker."
"Don't thank me - ever - this isn't a favor to you. Dr. Abraham deserved retribution for Donoterase and for what he did to Eric Strand. I might have said the world is a safer place, if I hadn't seen your face when you killed him."
Jarod turned away from her and moved down the alley, faster and faster, until he was running. He expected Miss Parker to change her mind; to send the cleaners after him, or better, to put a bullet in his back. An execution for and execution. He knew it would not happen. The murderer of the day was him.
Feedback please!
