Summary:(Summer Alphabet Challenge 2007) A short tag on, of sorts, to the Season 2 ep Harvest, inspired by an Alan quote from the episode.
Disclaimer:I do not count Numb3rs among my worldly possessions.
Author's Note:In the near future, I can see my addiction to the season 2 DVD's begin to scare me… but not yet. The quote that inspired this, I always thought it was weird of Alan to say it to Don, of all people. The title reminds me of that video game my brother and I were addicted to… Mortal Kombat. Good times.
Reference made to Uncertainly Principle (the Holy Grail of Numb3rs angst), Sniper Zero, Protest and Rampage (even though it happens after, call it a ripple in the space-time continuum)
M is for Mortality
"I'm just saying that… when it comes to looking at your own mortality?You'd grab onto anything to save your life" -Alan Eppes (Harvest)
It was after a rather delicious, but somewhat spicy, dinner of Indian takeout food courtesy of Amita and her prize money from the Milton prize, that Larry and Alan settled down to a both competitive and friendly game of chess, Amita left to pay a quick visit to a friend who had recently arrived in town, and Charlie and Don lounged on the sofas in the living room, a beer and the evening's newspaper in Don's hand, and Charlie perusing a math journal.
Don's mind was barely registering what was written on the sports page in front of him, hardly paying attention to the media hype surrounding the arrival of English sports superstar David Beckham to the city to play soccer for LA Galaxy. Don's mind had wandered back to the comment his father had made a day ago, and now that the case was closed and the missing girls found, Don could ponder in peace.
Mortality? His mother had already become a victim to hers, and Don was the one most likely to be next in the family to join her: In spite of his father getting on in years, Don knew there were only so many times he could dance with the reaper and escape. Hell, according to Charlie, he was already an anomaly; he shouldn't even be alive right now. And Charlie was looking at one incident, not knowing the multiple other times Don had been shot at, and in a rare few times, acquired injuries more life-threatening than a graze to the elbow. Speaking of Charlie… his little brother had also had his share of near death experiences, especially for a professor of maths. The sniper, the rampage at the FBI office… anomalous beings, the two brothers were.
His father's words had struck a chord within Don; he'd gotten so used to putting his life on the line everyday, taking risks that jeopardized his safety, pushing down his own instincts of self-preservation to save other people, that he'd forgotten how people other than him and like him, other law enforcement officers, thought and reacted towards their own mortality. Not everybody went to work every single day with the thought in the back of their minds that each day held a high potential to be their last. "Hang on to anything to save your life" …would he? Don was so ready to sacrifice himself for the greater good, for the faceless stranger, for his team, for the people he loved, that his safety was way down on the list. He wasn't suicidal, far from that, nor did he have a death wish; he just wasn't afraid of death. Thinking about it, he wasn't sure what exactly made him go from hitting baseballs outta the park to carrying a gun on his hip all the time. Had he worked just a little bit harder, played a little bit better, perhaps his face would have been on cereal boxes instead of on the hit list of vengeful criminals, out to have their revenge on the cop who put them behind bars. When he'd signed up for the FBI, he wasn't completely clueless as to the risks involved, and the 21 weeks of training gave him more than ample opportunity to realize just what he was getting himself into, right up to the moment he took the oath. He knew what his father's first thought had been at the news: "Where did I go wrong?", but he didn't know what Charlie had thought. Back then, they were hardly in touch with each other, his brother's head filled with numbers as strove to fill his mind with as much information as he could, under the watchful eye of Larry Fleinhardt.
His thoughts were distracted by his brother getting off the sofa and sitting down on the floor, legs stretched out, back supported by the couch. Charlie… if there was anyone he would most likely give his life for, it would be for his baby brother; the embodiment of innocence and all that was worth fighting for, getting up in the morning and facing the difficulties of each day for: for his brother, and people like his brother.
Don looked up from the newspaper he was staring at when he felt his brother poke him in the knee with the back of his ballpoint pen.
"Why are you glaring at the newspaper so intently? Read something you didn't like?" asked Charlie, half-jokingly.
"Nothing too tragic on the sports page, unless you count a British invasion of our soccer team. Feel up to seeing what the hype is regarding a bald headed dude married to the Spice Girls chick?" asked Don.
"It is wrong on so many levels that you even know who the Spice Girls are. But if you buy me one of those foam fingers, I'll come with you to a game," offered Charlie.
"Done. You can buy the tickets," said Don, grinning when his brother sent him a mock glare.
Death affected the people who were left behind, most of all. Don was of the school of thought that once you were dead, you were dead. That's it. End of story. Sure, there might be a better place on the other side, but he wasn't holding his breath. But it was the loved ones who mourned, who were hurt most of all, and it was something Don always hoped that his death, when it inevitably came, would not cause too much grief. He wasn't hoping that nobody mourned his passing, because what would that say about the life he lived, but that eventually his family could move on.
All in all, all Don could hope for was that when the end came, he would go gently into that good night, and not rage against the dying of the light.
Khatum (The End)
This is a rash posting, I couldn't be bothered to wait. I'm so going to regret this in the morning.
For those who don't quite remember it, the last line is a variation of a Dylan poem. Although the line sounds corny as hell, you can't think of death without thinking of Dylan. Dylan Thomas, I mean, not Bob 'Knockin on Heaven's Door' Dylan. The line is:
"Do not go gently into that good night/Rage, rage against the dying of the light"
I'm pretty sure I've made some sentencing mistakes etc somewhere (I know you dance with the devil, what in the world do you do with a reaper?).
I shall blame too much listening of Boston for this weird piece in the morning. Until then, adios:-)