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Aug. 20th, 2005 04:07 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ficinabottleTitle: You Don't Know Jack
Author: Elektra
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Horror, AU
Disclaimer: I write for fun, not profit and Lost is owned by ABC, Disney and Bad Robot, not me.
Summary: What if the Jack that boarded Oceanic Airline Flight 815 wasn't Jack Sheppard? A familiar scene takes on a more sinister tone...
He soaks in the chaos with obscene glee. Miniature acts of heroism, cowardice and confusion play out around the man. As much as he is enjoys the surrounding apocalypse he needs a moment to himself to take care of his wound. He spies a suitcase and ransacks it for useful items.
As he makes his way to a more isolated spot he wonders if he can take advantage of the pandemonium. He finds a place to kneel down and sets out the sewing kit he managed to find.
A young woman walks by, too dazed to register the presence of the half naked, bleeding man.
"Excuse me," He calls out, trying to get her attention. "Did you ever use a needle?"
She sees him for the first time. "What?" She asks warily.
"Did you ever...patch a pair of jeans?" He asks. It seems like a non-sequitur.
"I, um, I made the drapes in my apartment."
"That's fantastic. Listen, do you have a second? I could use a little help here."
She walks over to him.
"Help with what?"
The man shows her the wound, and she grimaces.
Seeing her reaction he explains, "Look, I'd do it myself, I'm a doctor, but I just can't reach it."
"You want me to sew that up?" She exclaims, a bit horrified.
"It's just like the drapes, same thing," he insists with slight impatience.
"No, with the drapes I used a sewing machine," she refutes.
"No, you can do this. I'm telling you," he demands, then he backs off. "If you wouldn't mind," asks a little more gently.
He sees her hesitate and thinks, 'Stupid witch! Give me a hand already!'
A familiar feeling begins to surface within him. One that reminds why he hates women. He pushes the negative emotions down and casts her a pleading look.
For a moment, she sees something in his eyes, but it could be a trick of the light.
"Of course I will," the woman finally replies.
"Thank you." He hands her the little liquor bottle from his pocket. He fears she won't take it.
"It's for your hands." When she gives him a skeptical look he adds, "Save me some for the, for the wound."
She hesitates, then takes a swig. The liquid burns all too quickly down her throat.
Picking up the little sewing kit she asks, "any color preference?"
Laughing, he answers, "standard black." He then pretends to dump the vodka on his wound.
The woman begins sewing up the doctor's side. As she proceeds a wave of dizziness passes over her.
"I might throw up on you," she explains, a bit nervously. The light headed feeling was getting stronger and she was afraid of passing out.
He shakes his head. "You're doing fine a, um, what's your name?"
"K-Kate," she answers, wiping sweat away from her forehead with a shaky hand.
"Kate," he repeats. He remembers a Kate from his past. Kate Eddowes was her name. There was a Kate, and a Mary, and an Annie, and an Elizabeth and someone else whose name escapes him at the moment.
"My name is George, George Chapman," he offers.
"George," she breathes out, shakily. "You have a slight accent. Are you from Australia?"
"No, but I lived in England for a time. In a place called Whitechapel. I guess I picked up a little accent there."
George stares at her as if trying to gage some sort of reaction. The name Whitechapel sounds familiar, but she can't place it at the moment.
"There's something really off about this situation," Kate thinks.
Her normally fine-tuned instincts were way off right now, probably a result of the crash and the tumultuous events that preceded it. Her thoughts become disjointed and she really wants to lay down but she's nearly finished with the task at hand.
Struggling to fill the silence she comments, "you don't seem afraid at all. I don't understand that."
George seems to ponder this, then says, "well, fear's sort of an odd thing. When you live with it as long as I have, you begin to like it..."
'What a strange thing to say,' she thinks. Then her vision begins two double and his voice fades, in and out. Her fingers slowly let go of the needle and she watches it swing back and forth, still on the thread that pokes from his skin.
"and that is why I kill women like you," he finishes.
"What? NOOOOOOO," she cries out, only he's covering her mouth with his hand.
She tries to rise, but she is being forced backwards, rather easily.
"Shhhhh. You're not running now Kate, or ever," he whispers.
He uncovers her mouth and with her fading vision she sees him pull a knife from behind him. 'Where did that come from?' She wonders.
"Why...G-george?" she manages to spit out.
"Why George?" He repeats, mockingly.
"Don't call me George, Katie. Call me by my real name," He demands as he brings the knife to her throat.
"Call me...Jack."
The End
Author: Elektra
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Horror, AU
Disclaimer: I write for fun, not profit and Lost is owned by ABC, Disney and Bad Robot, not me.
Summary: What if the Jack that boarded Oceanic Airline Flight 815 wasn't Jack Sheppard? A familiar scene takes on a more sinister tone...
He soaks in the chaos with obscene glee. Miniature acts of heroism, cowardice and confusion play out around the man. As much as he is enjoys the surrounding apocalypse he needs a moment to himself to take care of his wound. He spies a suitcase and ransacks it for useful items.
As he makes his way to a more isolated spot he wonders if he can take advantage of the pandemonium. He finds a place to kneel down and sets out the sewing kit he managed to find.
A young woman walks by, too dazed to register the presence of the half naked, bleeding man.
"Excuse me," He calls out, trying to get her attention. "Did you ever use a needle?"
She sees him for the first time. "What?" She asks warily.
"Did you ever...patch a pair of jeans?" He asks. It seems like a non-sequitur.
"I, um, I made the drapes in my apartment."
"That's fantastic. Listen, do you have a second? I could use a little help here."
She walks over to him.
"Help with what?"
The man shows her the wound, and she grimaces.
Seeing her reaction he explains, "Look, I'd do it myself, I'm a doctor, but I just can't reach it."
"You want me to sew that up?" She exclaims, a bit horrified.
"It's just like the drapes, same thing," he insists with slight impatience.
"No, with the drapes I used a sewing machine," she refutes.
"No, you can do this. I'm telling you," he demands, then he backs off. "If you wouldn't mind," asks a little more gently.
He sees her hesitate and thinks, 'Stupid witch! Give me a hand already!'
A familiar feeling begins to surface within him. One that reminds why he hates women. He pushes the negative emotions down and casts her a pleading look.
For a moment, she sees something in his eyes, but it could be a trick of the light.
"Of course I will," the woman finally replies.
"Thank you." He hands her the little liquor bottle from his pocket. He fears she won't take it.
"It's for your hands." When she gives him a skeptical look he adds, "Save me some for the, for the wound."
She hesitates, then takes a swig. The liquid burns all too quickly down her throat.
Picking up the little sewing kit she asks, "any color preference?"
Laughing, he answers, "standard black." He then pretends to dump the vodka on his wound.
The woman begins sewing up the doctor's side. As she proceeds a wave of dizziness passes over her.
"I might throw up on you," she explains, a bit nervously. The light headed feeling was getting stronger and she was afraid of passing out.
He shakes his head. "You're doing fine a, um, what's your name?"
"K-Kate," she answers, wiping sweat away from her forehead with a shaky hand.
"Kate," he repeats. He remembers a Kate from his past. Kate Eddowes was her name. There was a Kate, and a Mary, and an Annie, and an Elizabeth and someone else whose name escapes him at the moment.
"My name is George, George Chapman," he offers.
"George," she breathes out, shakily. "You have a slight accent. Are you from Australia?"
"No, but I lived in England for a time. In a place called Whitechapel. I guess I picked up a little accent there."
George stares at her as if trying to gage some sort of reaction. The name Whitechapel sounds familiar, but she can't place it at the moment.
"There's something really off about this situation," Kate thinks.
Her normally fine-tuned instincts were way off right now, probably a result of the crash and the tumultuous events that preceded it. Her thoughts become disjointed and she really wants to lay down but she's nearly finished with the task at hand.
Struggling to fill the silence she comments, "you don't seem afraid at all. I don't understand that."
George seems to ponder this, then says, "well, fear's sort of an odd thing. When you live with it as long as I have, you begin to like it..."
'What a strange thing to say,' she thinks. Then her vision begins two double and his voice fades, in and out. Her fingers slowly let go of the needle and she watches it swing back and forth, still on the thread that pokes from his skin.
"and that is why I kill women like you," he finishes.
"What? NOOOOOOO," she cries out, only he's covering her mouth with his hand.
She tries to rise, but she is being forced backwards, rather easily.
"Shhhhh. You're not running now Kate, or ever," he whispers.
He uncovers her mouth and with her fading vision she sees him pull a knife from behind him. 'Where did that come from?' She wonders.
"Why...G-george?" she manages to spit out.
"Why George?" He repeats, mockingly.
"Don't call me George, Katie. Call me by my real name," He demands as he brings the knife to her throat.
"Call me...Jack."
The End
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Date: 2005-08-25 07:07 am (UTC)Anyway, thanks for the review. This will to be a series with different Jacks. Stick around if you're interested. -e
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Date: 2005-08-30 03:09 am (UTC)