4.3
( be scared, but do it anyway. )
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spencer
When Spencer, with a breath of relief, bursts from the elevator doors, he breaks into a room of complete chaos. He had only left a few minutes ago, considering when he heard about the bomb blast he raced straight back to the Federal Building, but the office has descended into chaos since he left: workers dash and dart between desks, and a couple of people are shouting, and everyone is gathering around the televisions positioned on the walls, swarming like bugs.
They're all watching the same thing.
Rossi is in the room reserved for their team at the back of the office. But he's the only one there. No Hotch, no Morgan, no Emily, no JJ. No Iris.
"David!" Spencer cries out, picking up his pace as he races over to join the older man by the TV. "I heard on the radio, I came — "
"I know, me too," Rossi cuts in quickly, eyes never leaving the TV; he watches with wide eyes as the reporter gives her speech, speaking with the insincere sincerity only TV reporters can pull off. "We're the only ones here. Apart from Garcia — she's still in the surveillance room."
"A car bomb." It's started, he thinks. "Did they say where?"
Rossi meets his stare, finally. "No," he answers, before he pauses, thinking. "Can you recall every sight where the shootings occurred?" Fairly easily, Spencer lists them, and Rossi nods as he orders, "We need to get Homeland Security in all those places. There's about to be eight suicide bombers in each of them."
"Sixteen, actually," Spencer corrects, even though he hates saying it — dreads to even think it.
"What?"
"Two bombers. One wave, and then a second," he elaborates.
Rossi opens his mouth, maybe in shock or maybe to reply, but then the woman on the television captures their interest, and they both look down to watch the brunette, standing out in the darkness with a fire blazing behind her, a microphone in her hand. "It has just been reported that the bomb was inside an SUV outside Federal Plaza," she says, pressing her finger to her earpiece. "A black SUV."
Spencer's heart drops out of his chest, and he feels the ground hollow out beneath him, feeling squishy and unsteady, like quicksand. Hotch, Kate and Iris went to meet the commissioner — they would have been there, at Federal Plaza. He looks at Rossi, who meets his gaze briefly, but then he snaps out of his grief and returns to Work Mode, grabbing for a phone.
Feeling emotional and, unlike Rossi, unable to hide it and unafraid of showing it, Spencer pulls out his phone with slightly trembling hands, and brings up Iris' number.
It rings three, four, five times, and then goes to voicemail: Hi, this is Iris Remington, but you probably call me Remy! Sorry, I can't come —
Sighing, but it comes out as half a growl, he hangs up and tries again. "Come on, Iris," he says through gritted teeth as it rings.
No answer, once again.
"Hotch isn't answering. Reid?" Rossi demands from behind him.
He hangs up, jamming his phone into his pocket as he turns to face the older man. "Iris isn't answering, either."
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iris
"Holy . . . Mother . . . Of shit."
Those are the first words Iris manages to drawl out in pain and shock as she raises her heavy head, feeling like she's in a daze and nothing is real, almost like the events that had occurred before she fell unconscious were all just a product of a nightmare.
But, no, it's real, as she learns from the sight of the flaming car still parked up on the curb, and the wail of the car's alarm going off, which she only now notices because the ringing in her ears has died down.
She props herself up on her elbows, blinking blood out of her eyes, but it gathers like mascara goop on her eyelashes so she has to rub it away. Her hand brushes the cut in her eyebrow, where all the blood comes from, and she hisses sharply with the stinging pain it causes.
Other than that, and her face being dirtied with soot and ash, and a few rips in her jeans, and the fact her clothes are singed in places, she's pretty much unharmed. Luckily — very luckily — considering how close she had been to the blast.
A moment later, as she groans and begins to raise herself to her feet, she feels hands on her and looks up to see Hotch. "Iris," he pants, helping her steady herself. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" He, too, is bleeding, and his eyes hold the same glazed, shocked stare as she's sure her's do, but he seems fine. He's too visibly concerned about her well-being not to be relatively okay himself.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she says, even though she's never felt so far from fine in her life. She's shaken and dazed, and her heart is pounding with fear even though she feels a simultaneous calmness, like she's merely an observer to this scene.
Behind Hotch stands another man: younger, maybe early twenties, with curly brown hair and wearing a casual plaid jacket and jeans. Hotch glances between them, orders the younger boy to make sure she's okay, and then races off, shouting out for Kate.
The moment he disappears, Iris loses all support aside from her own legs, and considering her legs feel like jelly, they're not much use either. The boy catches her, holding her upright with a comforting hand on her elbow and arm around her shoulders.
"Are you sure your alright?" he asks, bending his neck downward to meet her eyes with his own.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," she says. She grits her teeth and forces herself to push her hand against the wound on her forehead so she can wipe away a bit of the blood.
"He say your name's Iris?" the young man asks. When she nods, he smiles a little and says, "I'm Sam."
Before she can say anything else, alarms wail and scream in the distance. They both look up, hyper-aware, like rabbits with itching noses or a fox listening for prey, and note how the sounds are growing louder, closer. A moment later, and four ambulances and cop cars whirl around the corner.
But, instead of speeding down the street toward them, they stop a hundred metres or so away, at the end of the street.
"What are they doing?" Sam demands, voice wavering. "Why aren't they coming? Can't they see us?"
Iris wonders the same thing, too, but then she understands. "They can see us," she whispers, "but they sure as hell can't help us. Not yet."
She looks up, eyes flicking around until they land on the hunched over figure of Hotch; he's knelt on the ground next to a body Iris can't see, but she can guess who it is: Kate. Limping slightly — her ankle aches with every step, most likely due to a bad sprain or a torn muscle — she races over. "Is she dead?" she cries as she nears, Sam close behind. "Oh, God, is she dead?"
She watches the back of Hotch's head, which shakes from side to side. No.
"I — Hotch, they aren't coming down here, man," she says, trying to sound brave, but there's a tremor in her voice that she can't hide, and that gives her away. "The first wave isn't the target. It's the second wave they want, and it's those people up there who are the second wave. They're not coming down here until the sight is clear."
Hotch shakes his head and she watches his shoulders, covered by only his white shirt now that he's taken his jacket off to contain Kate's blood, heave with a few ragged breaths as he thinks. Then, authoritatively, he orders, "Go down there. Now. Get someone to come up here; they'll listen to you if you use your badge. Sam, help me with this."
Sam lunges forward to do so as Iris hesitates, and then does as asked. Limping, grunting when she has to step on her weak ankle, she takes off in the direction of the end of the street, where all the emergency responders are.
Homeland Security have been called down, and they swing their guns on her — huge assault rifles, which she deems unnecessary — when she grows closer. She raises her arms in a gesture of surrender, slowing down to jog the last few feet.
"I'm FBI, man!" she yells, eyes darting around. She scrambles for her badge and holds it up, the gold glinting in the yellow light of the street-lamps. "I'm FBI, let me through."
They shove aside the barricade, allowing her to slip back into civilian life.
"Alright, someone has to go down there!" she yells to no-one in particular, but she has a lot of attention from those nearest the barricade. "We got two federal officers and a teenager, alright? No matter your orders, or what you've been told, someone's gotta go down there!"
"Hey!" a familiar voice interrupts, and Iris spots a familiar bald head bobbing through the crowd. Relief so immense it almost drowns her flushes through her body, washing out any fear or worry. "Hey! Let me through!" Morgan.
"Derek!" Iris cries, lunging forward and dodging through the crowd until she finds him, and they lunge the last few feet until they crash together in a tight embrace. His arms wrap under hers, and she grips him tight around the shoulders, feet almost rising straight from the floor. He smells familiar, like cologne and sweat and natural warmth all at once. Morgan, she thinks in a state of sudden, internal calm, he'll know what to do.
He eventually lets her go, holding her at arms length so he can look her up and down, making sure she's okay. "You're alright?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine! It's — it's Kate, she's the one who's hurt! But they can't go down there until they've cleared the area completely." Only when she hears her own voice, begging for help and trying to explain her hectic, panicked thoughts, does she realise just how hysterical she is. God, she's terrified.
But she carries on. She has to. Even if her heart is pounding so fast and so loudly she feels like she could have a straight up heart-attack, she will carry on — mostly because her mom sure as fuck didn't raise a girl who gives up on her friends.
"Who's in charge here?" Morgan demands after a moment of thinking and organising himself, looking up and moving away from Iris.
A man by the barricade responds. "Captain Warden."
Morgan grasps Iris by her wrist and tows her along as he finds Captain Warden, standing by the barricade with a cap on reading HOMELAND SECURITY in white font against the blue material. "Hey, hey! Captain Warden! I'm Agent Morgan, and this Agent Remington. FBI. I'm looking for Agent Hotchner. Aaron Hotchner."
The man stares straight ahead, as if the two of them aren't there; anger stirs inside of Iris like an awakening beast. "Go back to the Federal Building," he orders monotonously. "You need to make sure they know where you are."
Morgan shoves his way to stand directly in front of him, staring at him furiously. "I'm not about to do that!"
"Get out of my face," Warden says, "or I'll have you forcibly removed."
"Like hell you will!" Iris retorts, joining Morgan in front of the man. "A woman is injured down there, my superior is down there, and — Morgan!"
Derek has turned to hurdle the barricade, but a man with a helmet and a gun raises his weapon, swinging it on them both as she bellows, "Hey! The area's restricted."
"That's our boss down there!" Iris and Morgan yell simultaneously.
"I have orders!"
"I don't give a damn what your orders are!" Morgan retorts.
Iris whirls back to face Captain Warden. "Listen, mate — "
"I get it, Mrs Remington — "
"It's Agent," she hisses, venomously, as she takes a step forward. Her nose almost slips against his as she brings herself up to her full height.
Tugging Iris out of the way, Morgan takes her place in front of Warden and leans in close to speak to him quietly, hoping that a calmer, friendlier approach might help them. It doesn't; within seconds, the two of them are yelling, and back at the bomb site Iris, who clings to the roots of her hair, can hear Hotch screaming and bellowing for help.
But then Morgan grabs her arm. "Come on," he says lowly. "We can go down there."
She blinks, stunned.
He nods, reiterating his point, and tugs her after him as they head for the barrier. They hurdle it and take off down the street, racing back to Hotch; Iris hardly notices her bad ankle, adrenaline pushing her onward, pushing her through.
Half way down, her phone buzzes in her pocket and she slows, pulling it from her pocket to answer as Morgan races onward. She thinks about not answering — well, she has more important things to attend to — but it's Garcia who's calling, and Garcia only calls if it's important.
"Garcia?" she asks breathlessly, flipping it open.
Garcia is heard releasing a heavy breath. "Iris? You're okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Is everyone else okay? JJ? Spencer?"
"They're fine," Garcia says, and Iris sighs in relief, eyes closing. "There's been no other bombs so far, but the one at your site, Iris? The guy in the t-shirt, with the curly hair, next to Morgan and Hotch," Iris looks up, seeing Sam crouching beside her boss and Morgan, "he's the unsub, Iris. I've gone through the footage, and it's him."
She looks up again. Sam is backing away from the scene, stepping backwards with long strides, almost disappearing around the corner.
"Got it, Garcia."
She hangs up and starts forward, breaking into a run.
Sam, now at the corner, sees her coming, and opens his arms, like an open invitation. Like a confession of guilt. His smile broadens arrogantly, and Iris has never felt such detest for another human being before in her life.
"Hey!" she roars, springing past where Hotch and Morgan crouch with Kate, and he breaks into a run too, disappearing around the corner of the block.
She dashes down the street after him, feeling the heat sear across her skin as she races past the still burning car and skids the corner straight after him.
This street is relatively abandoned, probably due to the buffer zone created by the emergency responders, and only their footsteps echo as they whip past closed up shop windows and under street signs, some of which flap forlornly in the night's soft breeze. A police car whirls past, alarms blazing and wailing, and then an ambulance, though she hardly notices either of them in her panicked, adrenaline-inducing chase.
Up ahead, Sam spins a left corner and Iris follows, just about quick enough to see him racing down the steps into a subway station. Her eyes dart up the sign as she follows, reading in the dim light: CHAMBER STATION.
Down in the station, there is suddenly a burst of light which makes her squint, so used to the night's darkness before the luminescent, sterile white glow of the lights built into the ceiling. The hallways, the walls of which are tiled white and blue, are packed with people of all kinds, and Iris mercilessly shoves them out of the way in her struggle after Sam.
Finally, she clears the crowd and clatters down the tiled stairs to the platform as quickly as her trembling legs can allow. She pulls her gun from her back pocket as she steps onto the platform —
And, very suddenly, she is met by a deep and overwhelming silence.
The platform is perfectly empty, and the only noise is her own panting.
She raises her gun, staring down the barrel and sweeping her gaze across the area. Her heart races, and even though she can see that it's empty, she's still terrified he's going to swim out of the shadow and kill her, just like he killed all those people in places just like these.
Her feet carry her toward the train pulled up on the edge of the platform, the doors of which are open, and she steps into the first carriage with a deep inhale, as if it's about to be her last breath.
But this carriage, too, is also empty and silent.
The door to the next carriage hisses as she slides it open, but she hardly notices; her instincts are quick, and in a split second she's darted through, swinging her gun around but finding no target. Her breathing is shaky as she steps tentatively forward, edging through the carriage to the next door.
There's a window in this doorway, but it's opaque, masking anything that might linger beyond it. Unsurprisingly, when she darts through, it's merely an empty carriage. Again.
The next is the final carriage, and she repeats the same process as she steps into it, finding nothing. Swallowing, and mustering up all her courage, she switches on the torch attached to the very top of her gun and stalks with a soar of her bravery to the door at the end.
She takes a deep breath, yanks the door open with a hiss, and hops out into the colossal darkness of the the tunnel.
Her hands shake and she makes a conscious effort to hold them as steady as possible when she swings her torch back and forth, once more locating no target for her bullets; it's as if this unsub is just a ghost, a figment if a nightmare, something incorporeal that doesn't have to follow the rules of logic.
Her eyes land upon the yellow HIGH VOLTAGE triangle positioned on the brick wall and she swallows again, though her throat refuses to close.
She slowly turns the corner of the brick tunnel, but nothing lies straight ahead but an infinitesimal darkness.
"I know you're in here," she hisses, breathing making the words jagged and shaky, and she hates the sound of the fear in her voice, "you little shit!"
Making her heart jump like it's been hit by the current of a defibrillator, a hiss echoes behind her — to her relief, it comes from the electrical wires that wind like confusing maps across the curved brick roof of the tunnel.
"You got nowhere to run, man!" she shouts again. Her voice ripples down the tunnel, echoing.
"You don't scare me!" a voice retorts from the blackness, and in her torch she finds movement. Sam steps forward and his face swims out of the shadow, pale in the glow of her flashlight. He's smiling, and chills ripple through her body, making her shudder. "In fact, I'm the one who scares you!"
"You're insane! You've killed people," Iris snaps. "Sorry to break it to you, but that makes you a little bit intimidating!"
Sam cackles with wild laughter, tilting his head back.
It's almost like he hopes his laughter is going to distract her. It doesn't — that is a wild underestimation of her talent and abilities, and it is also his key mistake. As he raises the gun, hoping his wild, howling laughter has made her focus falter, she fires.
Back in the FBI academy, she'd been the best in her team when it came to firearms. After three years, that hasn't changed; on shot — one fatal shot — and he goes down like a puppet whose strings have lost all their tension.
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Author's Note:
Mm badass Iris? Yes please