Title: The Protege
Author: Tripetta firstname.lastname@example.org
Summary: 'The Professional/Leon' sequel. It's six years after the events
of the film. Leon wasn't killed in the explosion, but suffered severe
injuries and has been comatose for much of the past six years. Mathilda,
along with the rest of the world, believes Leon to be dead, but has never
forgotten him or the lessons he taught her. As she nears adulthood, she
decides to follow in his footsteps. What happens when fate causes their
paths to cross once more?
Disclaimer: 'The Professional/Leon' universe doesn't belong to me.
Columbia/Tri-Star Pictures holds that privilege. I penned this story for
love of the movie and characters and am making nada moolah from it. Please
don't sue for it would be a fruitless endeavor. Trust me.
Authors Note: Yes, I know, there is absolutely no way Leon survived the end
of the movie. I'd have to agree with you there. BUT I just couldn't let
him go like that. The ending was so unworthy of him. And I couldn't let
Stan win, nope nope. So you'll just have to buck up, suspend your
disbelief and get on with it. Or not. Entirely up to you.
Feedback and/or reading and reviewing: If you'd like to let me know your
thoughts and feelings on this piece of fiction, I'm more than eager to hear
them. You can either e-mail me at the above address or submit a review.
'And lovely apparitions, -- dim at first,
Then radiant, as the mind, arising bright
From the embrace of beauty (whence the forms
Of which these are the phantoms) casts on them
The gathered rays which are reality –'
'Prometheus Unbound' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley
Franklin Hospital Medical Center
Valley Stream, New York
Amelia Ruttledge, R.N., parked her Honda in her assigned employee parking
space behind Franklin Hospital Medical Center. The hospital was creatively
named for the street on which it was located, Franklin Avenue, which itself
was centered in Valley Stream, New York. Effectively, it was a suburb of
New York City, being just east down State Highway 27 where Queens County
gave way to Nassau Bay County. Amelia was thankful for that distinction
though. Nassau Bay allotted more funds to the hospital than Queens would
be able, or willing, to.
Franklin was a non-proft facility dedicated to providing the best quality
care to those who couldn't afford it. It also housed an excellent long
term care and rehabilitation wing, which was Amelia's domain. She mused
over this as she locked her vehicle and made her way to the back entrance
as the sky darkened. She had been working the 12 hour night shift, from
6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., for more years than she cared to recall.
She ran her key card through the slot beside the door and made her way to
the staff elevator, her rubber soled shoes barely making a sound on the
linoleum. She wasn't necessarily stealthy, though some would accuse her of
just that. She was the victim of genetics, possessing her father's height
and her mother's slight frame. At 5'11", she barely weighed over 100
pounds. 'You have to run around the shower to get wet' her husband would
often tease, but always with a smile and a kiss. Their 40th wedding
anniversary was only a few months away, she needed to think of something
extra special this year.
She punched the button for the 3rd floor and emerged, making a right
towards the nurse's station. Delia Jackson, her co-worker of the last 12
years, was already seated at the counter going over notes from the day
shift. Amelia smiled fondly as she approached, wondering as she always did
how two such different women could become such fast and enduring friends.
While Amelia was tall, thin, and pale as skim milk, Delia was short, squat,
and as dark as the moonless night outside. Amelia had grown up somewhat
privileged, married well, and was lucky enough to have never experienced
tragedy. Delia grew up in poverty, married and divorced three times with a
son to show for each, and had already lost two of them to the city's
violence. One to death and one to prison. Delia looked up as Amelia
reached the desk and glanced at the clock on the wall.
"Well, well," Delia commented, returning her gaze to Amelia, "barely 2
minutes early tonight. Slacking off, are we, in our old age?"
"Not all of us can be suck ups and brown nosers," Amelia replied, shrugging
a shoulder and walking her fingers across the counter. Delia managed to
suppress a grin and nodded her head.
"True enough, there are so few of us with a talent for it," she said,
huffing on her nails and then rubbing them on the scrub top covering her
ample chest. Amelia laughed.
"I can't argue with that," she replied and then nodded towards the stack of
folders. "What's on for tonight?"
"Oh, the usual, our share of bathing and medicating and stretching and
massaging...and news of further improvement with your favorite boy," Delia
told her, handing over a file.
Amelia's 'favorite boy' was a case that had come in 6 years earlier, a John
Doe with a bullet in the back of his head and burns over a good third of
his body. He'd been found in the rubble of a bad fire that had razed a
hotel in the city. No identification was found on him and of course all
guest records had been destroyed along with the building. Amelia had
wondered at the police maneuvering him into Franklin, but had gotten the
impression that John Doe may have been caught in the crossfire of whatever
was happening at the hotel at the time. Maybe they were trying to cover it
up, maybe they were being altruistic. Whatever the reason, Amelia was glad
he ended up on her doorstep.
"I'll just go take a peek in at him," she told Delia, heading down the
hall. Delia smiled knowingly and nodded, returning her attention to the
Amelia pushed open the door to room 322, the last room down the east wing,
and let it close softly behind her. The light above the head of the bed
was on at its lowest setting, illuminating enough of the room so that
Amelia didn't bump into anything. Not that she needed it after all these
years, she knew every inch of the room. She stopped at the side of the bed
and placed a hand on the side rail, the other holding the file to her
chest, and listened to his soft snoring. Like a baby's.
She marveled at how he had changed since his admission. Of course, after
six years, that was to be expected, but his case had almost been a lost
cause from the beginning. The bullet to the head should've done him in
from the get go, but luckily the area of penetration didn't prove fatal.
It had just put him a coma for four years. And then there were the burns,
which as far as burns went, weren't as bad as could've been expected
considering the state of the building. Mostly first degree, a few areas of
second degree. One of the delivering paramedics had told her John had been
lucky, that apparently the way that the debris had fallen about him had
shielded him from the worst of the flames. 'Good-bad luck', Amelia thought
And so John had come to her – burned, bloodied, and bullet ridden. And
with an amazingly strong will to live. She wondered why she had become so
taken with him. There were many that came into the facility, each with
worse injuries and a poorer prognosis, certainly more demanding of her time
and skills, but there was something about John. An aura about him. Not
that Amelia believed in such silly things, but John seemed to have one just
the same. And maybe, just maybe, he brought out her maternal instincts,
the ones she'd had to fold up and put away neatly after losing her baby son
so many years ago. She imagined her son might resemble John, tall and
handsome, with a sweetness and vulnerability about him. She reached down
and squeezed his hand softly and then left the room as silently as she'd
As she made her way back to the nurse's station, she checked over the notes
in his file that the day shift had made. A couple of years ago, John had
begun to wake from his coma. It wasn't like in the movies with the patient
popping up from the bed, immediately awake, as if from a nightmare. No,
the process took months, could even take years. But her John had excelled.
After a mere 3 months of slow awakening, he was forming complete
sentences, although they seemed to be in Italian. Another 2 months and he
was out of the bed and beginning the long road of rehabilitating his body,
his English coming back to him along with his strength. His memory was
another story, but that too would come with time.
She smiled to herself as she read the last line of notes in the file –
'Patient completes all assigned physical tasks, but always overexerts
himself with abdominal crunches.'
John did love his sit-ups.