The Pack

Story Title: The Pack

Story Summary: Tales from within our favorite pack of wolves.

Genre: General


Chapter Focus: #302 of 1000, "Ghosts"

Chapter Rating: T for mentions of torture

Word Count: (Count)


Author's Starting Notes: I loved Wanted the second I saw it. I postponed writing anything on it until after the DVD came out. I love putting in scenes, or getting settings and character descriptions close to perfection. Since the DVD is out and I needed some other updates for the Seven Days of Updating, I have two pieces that will be coming up here. This is the first. I am warning you now that this has spoilers, this entire fricken thing has tons of spoilers for the movie. If you haven't seen it (which I do not understand) then you shouldn't read this as it may ruin the movie for you, or make no sense. Just know that I am aware this is an actual scene. Don't leave me a review just saying that.

Time Stamp: Posted December 28th, 2008


I: Ghosts

His head breaks the white layer surrounding his face, freeing his lips and eyes from confinement. He wiggles his body a bit to shatter more of the substance caking his form. As he sits up, his gaze finds a person waiting. On her face is an unreadable expression. Despite that, he knows she has to be feeling something akin to frustration. All that training had to have gone to waste on him. He really is useless, he supposes.

He wants to say something about how sorry he is that he couldn't do it, but he cannot find the words to speak. He is not sorry. He did not -- and does not -- know anything about Robert Deane Darden. Killing him would have been wrong. A cloth should not choose a man's decisions. And, Wesley decides, it will not choose his.

"I'm not sorry," he tells her. It is meant to sound strong, but the chill of the liquid around him makes his teeth chatter a bit and his throat sound sore and scratchy.

"I figured you wouldn't be," she says. She walks over to him.

"I couldn't do it. I didn't think it was a good idea," he adds.

"I figured that too."

His eyes, which had been focused on her cool brown ones, pull back and away. There is something in them he can't decipher. Deep down, he is not so sure he wants to anyway. It is a mixture of disappointment, pain, and reminiscence so strong and startling that the origin seems almost as mystifying. He needs to erase the questions from his mind. So, he focuses on the disappointment she holds, that will be a good distraction, and that he is used to.

"You guys have some operation going on here. Beating people up, cutting them, putting them in strange tubs, shooting people because a guy tells you to. It's odd," he comments, "Very odd."

"You walked into this, Wesley," she reminds him.

"I did, I know. I don't think I knew exactly what it was I was entering though," he confesses. She looks on as if waiting for him to continue. A two-minute lapse of conversation later, and he is speaking once again.

"What did he do that he deserved to die? You don't know. I don't know if he was bad; I don't know if he was evil. I don't know anything about him. We got our orders from a loom. Fate. And we're supposed to take it on faith that what we're doing is right. Killing someone we know nothing about, I don't know if I can do that."

Fox watches him for a moment, stepping a bit closer as she does so. She moves to sit within the candles, rubbing her palms together slowly.

"About twenty years ago, there was this girl. Her dad was a federal judge, so she probably had it in her mind that she was gonna follow in his footsteps," Fox begins, she looks out into space a bit, "So, she's home one Christmas, and her dad's on this big racketeering case. The defendants want to get a softer judge, one they can buy off. So they hire this guy, Max Petridge, get him to pay her father a visit."

She looks at Wesley now; a cold, complacent look in her eyes that was not there before stares out into the candle-lit hall. She continues, "And the way he pays people a visit is to break in and tie up there loved ones, and force them to watch while he burns his targets alive," she pauses as if hearing the muffled, high-pitched screams once again, "And then he takes a wire hanger and twists it round and brands his initials into each one of them so they will never ever forget.

"After I was recruited into the Fraternity, I found out that Max Petridge's name had come up weeks before the federal judge was killed, and that a Fraternity member had failed to pull the trigger. We don't know how far the ripples of our decisions go. You kill one, and maybe, save a thousand. That's the code of the Fraternity. That's what we believe in, and that's why we do it."

She stands slowly from her spot by the candles. The movement causes her hair to rustle and settle on one side, exposing her neck. Etched into the would-be seamless skin are two letters: MP.

Wesley's blood runs cool with the realization. He watches her walk away, still envisioning the markings he saw on her retreating form.

The questions in his mind changes then. No more does he wonder "who was he?". He wonders, instead, "What has that bastard done?" He knows after this there will be no going in back, no returning to the life he had before. Especially not after what he's about to do.

He pulls his body up from the water, wrapping a towel around himself. He steps from the door and finds her learning against the wall opposite where he stands.

"So, when's the next time he'll be at the fifth window?" Wesley asks. She does not grin, or smirk, but he knows she has to be pleased somewhere in her heart. He just doesn't know if the pleasure will be enough to wipe away the haunting ghosts he sees reflecting in her eyes.

F I N

R & R


© Everything written above belongs to me (FF user, Paint Me a Symphony). If somebody is out there pushing this as their own, they are lying. I may not own Wanted, or its characters, but I do sort of kind of own this.