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scribblinlenoreDay Fourteen: Symbols of the Season, The 4400, Shawn, Jordan, Gen
Symbols of the Season
by Lenore
The mop made a dull slap every time it hit the floor, a janitorial symphony as he worked his way down the hall. People streamed past, doctors and nurses and worried family members. None of them spared him a glance, a man in an institutional green jumpsuit, doing the dirty work, cleaning up after them, nothing to see.
He pulled his cap down lower and kept an eye on room 417, and silently counted down, four, three, two, one. The alarm blared right on schedule, and the guard outside the room went running, along with the rest of the staff, and Jordan dropped the mop.
Shawn was bloodless and still, swathed in the stark white hospital sheet, almost shroud-like, as if they'd half conceded him to death already. There were cards on the bedside table, and a garland hanging over the bed. Someone, Shawn's mother maybe, had decorated, symbols of the season, and it made Jordan think of sacrifice, the way the ancient book told it, the light that had to be extinguished to save the people. This was the story of the world, so many sacred and profane renditions, fathers offering up their sons in the service of a higher purpose.
Jordan took the vial from his pocket, ripped open the packaging of the hypodermic needle. Dr. Burkhoff had formulated the theory that a lower dose of promicin could reset a 4400 whose abilities had been damaged. There had been no time to test it before they went on the run and no resources to do it now and of course no way of really knowing what Isabelle had done. Jordan swabbed Shawn's arm and gave him the shot, as Kevin had trained him to do, because whether it meant life or death, Jordan, and only Jordan, needed to be the agent of it.
For a moment, there was no reaction, and then Shawn's body seized, and he bucked up, a desperate intake of air, and he started to flail. Jordan held him down. "Come on, Shawn. Come on!" Finally the thrashing stopped, and Shawn's breathing grew quieter and more steady, and his eyes fluttered open.
It took him a moment to focus, and then he croaked, "Jordan?"
Jordan brushed the hair back from his forehead. "Welcome back."
Shawn smiled tiredly, but then his eyes went scared. "They're looking for you. You shouldn't-- You have to--"
"Shhh," Jordan soothed him. "It's going to be all right. You need to trust me, Shawn."
In the hallway, he caught the sound of people returning to their stations, the diversion apparently over.
He squeezed Shawn's shoulder. "I'll see you again soon."
He ducked out of the room and kept his head down, and the guard walked right past him.
"Oh, my God! He's awake," he heard a voice call out, and then everyone was clamoring into Shawn's room.
Jordan took the stairs, dumped the cap in a trashcan outside, and hopped into the car waiting at the curb. They sped away, past stoplights dressed with pine plastic boughs and fences festooned with red velvet ribbons, and Jordan felt strangely defiant. Maybe it was the season of inevitable sacrifice, but Shawn wasn’t his son, and there were still some things he wasn’t willing to part with.
Symbols of the Season
by Lenore
The mop made a dull slap every time it hit the floor, a janitorial symphony as he worked his way down the hall. People streamed past, doctors and nurses and worried family members. None of them spared him a glance, a man in an institutional green jumpsuit, doing the dirty work, cleaning up after them, nothing to see.
He pulled his cap down lower and kept an eye on room 417, and silently counted down, four, three, two, one. The alarm blared right on schedule, and the guard outside the room went running, along with the rest of the staff, and Jordan dropped the mop.
Shawn was bloodless and still, swathed in the stark white hospital sheet, almost shroud-like, as if they'd half conceded him to death already. There were cards on the bedside table, and a garland hanging over the bed. Someone, Shawn's mother maybe, had decorated, symbols of the season, and it made Jordan think of sacrifice, the way the ancient book told it, the light that had to be extinguished to save the people. This was the story of the world, so many sacred and profane renditions, fathers offering up their sons in the service of a higher purpose.
Jordan took the vial from his pocket, ripped open the packaging of the hypodermic needle. Dr. Burkhoff had formulated the theory that a lower dose of promicin could reset a 4400 whose abilities had been damaged. There had been no time to test it before they went on the run and no resources to do it now and of course no way of really knowing what Isabelle had done. Jordan swabbed Shawn's arm and gave him the shot, as Kevin had trained him to do, because whether it meant life or death, Jordan, and only Jordan, needed to be the agent of it.
For a moment, there was no reaction, and then Shawn's body seized, and he bucked up, a desperate intake of air, and he started to flail. Jordan held him down. "Come on, Shawn. Come on!" Finally the thrashing stopped, and Shawn's breathing grew quieter and more steady, and his eyes fluttered open.
It took him a moment to focus, and then he croaked, "Jordan?"
Jordan brushed the hair back from his forehead. "Welcome back."
Shawn smiled tiredly, but then his eyes went scared. "They're looking for you. You shouldn't-- You have to--"
"Shhh," Jordan soothed him. "It's going to be all right. You need to trust me, Shawn."
In the hallway, he caught the sound of people returning to their stations, the diversion apparently over.
He squeezed Shawn's shoulder. "I'll see you again soon."
He ducked out of the room and kept his head down, and the guard walked right past him.
"Oh, my God! He's awake," he heard a voice call out, and then everyone was clamoring into Shawn's room.
Jordan took the stairs, dumped the cap in a trashcan outside, and hopped into the car waiting at the curb. They sped away, past stoplights dressed with pine plastic boughs and fences festooned with red velvet ribbons, and Jordan felt strangely defiant. Maybe it was the season of inevitable sacrifice, but Shawn wasn’t his son, and there were still some things he wasn’t willing to part with.
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Date: 2006-12-07 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-11 07:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-11 08:19 pm (UTC)Can't wait until next season.
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Date: 2006-12-07 03:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-11 07:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-07 04:54 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2006-12-10 04:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-11 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-10 11:33 pm (UTC)Peace
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Date: 2006-12-11 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-26 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-03 07:56 pm (UTC)