rosanicus

No 4: "Don't be scared, I've done this before."
Non-human Whumper | Iron Rod | Loss of Powers

VERY loosely based on the prompts today. This is a side-fic to verse. chorus. verse. in honour of Biggles' terrible horrible no-good very bad day in the time loop where EvS kills him on sight.

The warehouse was just as Biggles remembered it.

This was awkward, as he had been quite hopeful that his memory of it came from a dream, and not - as he was increasingly sure - from some sort of science-fiction nonsense.

He stayed out by the boundary wall, hoping he appeared as non-descript as he'd intended, and smoked a series of cigarettes while the place came to life.

It was only a subtle sort of life, as it happened. Men surreptitiously came in and out of side doors, carrying nothing, and the large windows revealed very little of what was happening within. Even when Biggles yielded to old instincts and retreated to a distance, pulling his field glasses from the pocket of his coat, he could only see the gantries that hung the light fixtures.

But then, he'd expected that. When he went in his dreams, there had been only one floor. The walls were cheap plasterboard, and most of the doors had multiple locks.

There was little to be noted until late morning, about ten o'clock, when a familiar figure limped into view along the embankment. Biggles, in his place on a low wall nearby, lowered his head as he passed, letting the brim of his hat shade his eyes. He had no idea what he'd say if von Stalhein - his apparent murderer-that-was, or perhaps murderer-to-be - actually stopped to talk.

As it happened, von Stalhein didn't notice him. Biggles watched him as he walked past, his shabby overcoat left open to reveal the out-dated cut of his suit. There was something slightly vacant about his expression, although he'd be hard-pressed to put a finger on what.

He waited until the man had made his way onto the warehouse forecourt before he followed, cautiously, to the gates. Von Stalhein had paused at an odd point, head tilted forward, eyes fixed on the concrete. Biggles couldn't make out his expression at this distance.

The view of the warehouse from this angle gave Biggles a terrible sense of deja-vu. He shook his head sharply and lit another cigarette.

It was barely half-smoked when he saw the side door open and —

"By James," he murmured. Then he opened the gate, as quietly as possible, so that Algy could get out.

"Thank Christ," said Algy. He threw a casual arm around Biggles' shoulders, pulling him in for a brief embrace, then released him. "Give us a fag, would you? Those thugs took my case, I've been bereft for at least —" He glanced at his watch, then shuddered theatrically. "Ten hours."

Biggles pulled him to the riverside before he handed over his own cigarette case. They were out of a direct line of sight, he thought, but it seemed strange that no one had followed Algy out of the building.

When asked about this, Algy shrugged. "Didn't see anyone. Someone unlocked the door, didn't see who, and I slipped out when the coast sounded clear enough. Must've had a friend in there, although I can't say I think much of their conversation."

That was — fine. Biggles hooked an elbow over the guard rail and looked out at the river, where a family of ducks were fishing for an early lunch. Algy handed him the case back, along with a lit cigarette. Biggles took it and ignored the urge to look over his shoulder.

"You found me damned quick," observed Algy with a wry smile. "What gave them away?"

"Nothing," said Biggles. He glanced at his cousin, with his bruised and unshaven face. "I had no idea you were in there. We thought you were sleeping off a night out with Gaskin."

Algy snorted. "Gaskin went home to his missus for nine o'clock. I got nabbed off a street corner by eleven, possibly by coincidence, and tossed in a cell before midnight."

"Coincidence?"

"I don't think they knew who I was. At least, their leader was unimpressed when I told him my name — possibly my reputation precedes me." He grinned.

Biggles wished he was in the same sort of mood. He gave into the urge to turn and look back at the warehouse.

"You'd best get to the Yard," he said abruptly. "They'll send someone to look for you before long."

Algy accepted this with only a token argument, and allowed Biggles to frogmarch him up the river until he could hail a taxi for him.

"You're not coming?" Algy asked. He narrowed his eyes. "Hang on," he said, on the verge of some realisation. "Hang on, Biggles —"

"If I'm not with you by six," said Biggles. "You can bring the cavalry."

Then he closed the door, rapped on the roof, and walked away.

The sun was as high as it would get, now, and the shadows were short. The forecourt was empty once more, so he felt secure in pausing across the road and leaning against the wall. He checked his case and found it half empty already.

The afternoon passed slowly. It was a quiet sort of atmosphere, out on the street with very few passersby. Biggles had spent enough hours staking out places all around the world to have good stamina for being bored, but even he had to admit that it was beginning to get tedious by five o'clock.

He ground his latest cigarette beneath his heel and turned sharply at a noise from the warehouse. There had been some minor activity in the intervening hours, non-descript men in work clothes carrying crates in and out of a side door. This was not that.

The side door opened. Biggles fumbled his field glasses from his coat pocket and focused them across the bare distance, fifty yards or so. He was out of sight, he thought, so long as no one came closer. He wondered what would happen if these men killed him, given what had occurred the night before.

Something was being dragged across the threshold, an object of some weight if the two men pulling were anything to go by.

He watched for a while as the men discussed — something. They weren't speaking loudly enough for him to make out, and had they been he doubted it would be in a language he could understand. They seemed agitated, with the leader of the group clenching his fists at his sides.

After another few moments, a decision seemed to be made. The men returned inside, closing the door behind them, the sound echoing in the rapidly descending darkness.

Silence fell. Biggles watched carefully for several minutes, tension rising in his chest, before making his own decision. He eased the gate open just far enough to slip through, and stole across the forecourt. There were no overhead lights to give him away, at least, but he still felt his heart pound as he approached the side door.

The men had abandoned their cargo close to the wall, out of sight from the road, and Biggles knelt beside it now. He'd known almost from the first moment that it would be a body - there was little reason to be so covert in disposing of it, otherwise - but it was still a shock to see it so obviously.

The body wasn't wrapped. He could see the marks of violence on the bare forearms, the sides of the familiar face. Some blunt instrument had been used to inflict it, he thought, the bruising a deep black that said they had been made some time before death. It was not the beating that killed him, anyway. A circular hole in his forehead spoke of the cause; Biggles did not feel at the back of his skull for the gaping wound he knew would be there. He didn't touch him at all, except to close his eyes.

Von Stalhein, dead — murdered, in point of fact, and treated cruelly before it. The day before, from Biggles' perspective, he had killed Biggles. Had he known what his fate would be? Had he — Biggles thought with sudden clarity — been acting on some prior knowledge, on some repeating pattern?

He wondered whether the world had kept moving afterwards. Whether von Stalhein had kept his head up and looked death in the eye.

The door to the warehouse banged open; he had lingered too long, caught up by sentiment. One of the gang returned carrying a petrol can and a lighter, then stopped.

As a rule, Biggles avoided running but when he had to. He could have stayed and fought, and ended up dead beside his old enemy. He didn't know what the moral choice was — whether he would have another chance, or if he had only been granted one reprieve. He ran.

Last stands had a romantic appeal, Biggles knew, but he preferred life, and the chance to change things for the better.