Into Oblivion

Note: This takes place the day and night before the battle with the pirates.

Gabriel walked around Washtown, restless. He'd done his job, had gotten the word out there about Kevin's loot; from what he'd heard, they'd be leaving tomorrow for the ambush. Doing his old job again--coming up with lies, convincing others that they were truth--had given him a sense of guilty satisfaction. When it came to lying. . .he was the best.

The hard part came now--the waiting. He'd never been the best at waiting. He always felt as though he had to do something, as though there were something he was forgetting that would come back later and bite him in the ass. It was this restlessness that drove him to pace through the middle-of-ruttin'-nowhere town, looking for something to do.

He'd ended up walking behind Till's tavern on the far side of town; he was tempted to go in, but he knew he had to keep his wits about him. He kept walking until he near about walked into a man going the opposite direction.

"'Scuse me," Gabriel said as he ground to a halt and stepped to one side; he stumbled slightly as he moved; the ground was a bit uneven.

The stranger him by the wrist in order to steady him; Gabriel felt a sharp pain when he did, as though he'd wrenched too hard.

"Sorry about that," the stranger said. He was a heavyset man, and gave Gabriel an apologetic smile. "Wasn't watching where I was going."

"S'all right," Gabriel murmured, and continued on his way.

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Later that night, Gabriel sat in his one-room home, lying on his futon and staring up at the ceiling. It was almost one in the morning--he should've been asleep by now, but he wasn't. His thought were racing through his head.

Sometimes, he could almost swear he heard snippets of conversation--a word here, a phrase there. They were far off and distant, though. . .hopefully it was a good sign. Maybe it meant he was finally going to fall asleep.

. . .there was no such luck. If he was fallin' asleep, it was only halfway; the voices were distracting, kept him up. Gabriel laughed softly to himself; apparently, being half asleep was enough to keep him awake.

Thoughts started racing through his head as the night dragged on. He couldn't sleep, but he felt as though he could dream.

He was in Serenity Valley again, on that field filled with soldiers. He could hear Patrick, could see him. Except this time, he didn't hand Gabriel the canteen; he threw it, face snarling, water gushing from the opening and spilling over the bodies, turning into blood as it fell.

He leaned forward to catch it, and missed by inches, falling face first onto the bodies. . .except he never hit them. The field had become a cold, metal floor in a room with nothing but a cot with some blankets and a toilet. The room was deafening, filled with voices he couldn't recognize, couldn't remember. His neck was sore; why was his neck sore?

Trembling, Gabriel reached up and touched his neck; his hand came away stained with blood. He felt rough cotton under his fingers, felt the cool floor below him tilt and swoon, felt a rushing coldness pierce his belly and shoot through him. The voices were coherent now; they were shouting. Traitor! Murderer! You son of a bitch!

. . .there was something he needed to realize, somethign he needed to remember, that his subconscious was dragging up from the depths of his memory. The message was lost on him.

And then suddenly he was in Persephone, on the docks, holding a gun. His hand was smaller than his own, almost delicate, but it possessed an iron grip. He recognized it.

His partner. Arabella McKenzie.

Kenz. . .

He looked up, knew that he was Kenz, that Kenz was looking up. He was startled to see himself standing there, dressed in a blue-grey shirt and a pair of denim pants.

With a shock, he recognized the outfit; it was the one he'd met the day they'd met. She'd thought he was spying on her, and had got the drop on him. He'd stared down the barrel of the gun for a few moments as he desperately explained; his explanation was good enough that she hadn't killed him. They became partners, and, later, friends.

His grip on the gun was steely, unmoving. He watched as the form in front of him--as his form--opened it's mouth. "Ma'am, I--"

Without any volition on his part, his hand squeezed the trigger, and the gun fired. A neat, clean hole appeared in the figures forehead, and he slumped to the ground, dead.

. . .and back in Washtown, Gabriel's eyes opened with a start. He hadn't really slept, and the voices from his first dream had returned, whispering an undertone around him. . .though the same accusations sometimes drifted through the sound, sharp and quick, cutting him.

This wasn't going to work. He had a better plan.

He rummaged through his room until he found a green army bag. Inside, he pulled out one of two bottles. They were filled with a dark, amber liquid--whiskey, the knock-your-socks-off variety.

The voices were loud. He would quiet them.

He twisted off the cap and opened the bottle, taking a moment to inhale the strong, numbing scent. Then, after steeling himself for the moment, he lifted the bottle and drank, trying to take as much as he could in one go. After a moment--and after about half the bottle--he stopped, looking around.

The voices continued, and the far off ones disappeared all together. It wasn't better. All it left were the accusations, the slurs and hatred.

Not good enough. He drank the rest of the bottle and placed it carefully back in the bag, knocking it against the other one with a soft clink. The drink coursed through his system, firey in his veins, started blurring his vision and obscuring his hearing.

For a moment the voices were clearer than ever, screaming in his head. Gabriel collapsed onto his futon, grasping his head, gasping, whispering, ". . .stop. Please stop!"

And they did. The voices crescendoed and stopped, and he was left alone in the tent. He tried to get up from the futon, but found that his arms wouldn't support him.

It was quiet. Finally. A laugh escaped from his lips, tenative at first, but then growing louder and faster, more manic in relief, more erratic and crazy to hear. He laughed until he couldn't breathe, until his brain was too overcome by fog and slipped off, dragging him under the surface of sleep.