Fake Fan Fiction ❯ From the Ashes (Series: What If, Story 1: Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust Trilogy) ❯ Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own FAKE or Sanami Matoh's wonderful characters.

Rating: NC-17 OT+16 (Yaoi, Violence, Arson, Character Death)
Pairings: J.J./Drake
Timeframe: Approximately 2005
Series: What If?

Series Summary: The 'What If' is an alternate universe series where I explore various alternatives to the standard story. These can range from character deaths to characters never coming to the 27th in the first place. In other stories, I may deal with changing emotions in relationships and the affects they might have on those relationships. So far, my Dee-muse has been the main inspiration for these stories; so, blame him if you don't like them. ~_^* Whatever else he is, he's very creative and sadistic.


Trilogy: Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Story 1: From the Ashes

Warning: Character Death!

Summary: An arsonist has targeted the men and women of the 27th Precinct, how will they deal with the death of one of their own and the horrific burning of another. Can the survivors push forward and prevent additional tragedy? Or will everyone's dreams go up in flames?

 

 

Prologue

 

“What's happening, Ryo?” Berkley barked as he jumped out of the still moving site management truck as he and the chief pulled up. He looked around searching for his other detectives. He watched as J.J. and Drake ran over, and Ted and Marty turned another corner. “Where's Dee?” He asked as he realized who was missing.

 

“He's,” Ryo stammered out before just waving at the smoking building. “He's, I don't know.”

 

“Ryo,” Berkley stood in front of his detective, braced his hands on the young man's shoulders, and stared him straight in the eye. “We lost radio contact. You're the last one to know where he went. Where is Dee?”

 

“The last thing he said was that he was chasing Dillon into the blue warehouse.” Ryo stopped and simply stared at the drifting smoke. “He said not to follow him. Dillon has a gun and Dee doesn't want anyone else in a possible line-of-fire.” He looked back at his superior. “But, he couldn't have suspected the building would be rigged to burn.”

 

“Dee knows Dillon's case. He knows Dillon is an arsonist and has murdered people using fire. The building was rigged,” Berkley's voice faded away as that fact settled into his brain and he flashed back to the funeral of another detective from SVU just a week before. “No, I'm not losing another officer. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Never.” He swallowed hard as he turned away from his detective to search for the firefighters that had pulled up behind them; they needed to know there was someone other than the suspect inside the burning warehouse. “He's coming out. Alive.” The Commissioner's voice was hard as he rushed toward the fire department's scene leader. “You! One of my officers is inside.”

 

“Nothing we can do,” The heavy-set firefighter said as he chewed his gum loudly. “This is a Hazmat restricted warehouse and it's off-limits for my crew. We can't move in.”

 

“My officer is inside. He needs help.” Berkley couldn't believe his ears. He'd never heard of anything like this happening before. “They have to go in. Dee's still alive. I know it. I haven't lost another of my people, yet. It's not happening when I can do something about it. No more funerals,” Berkley's thoughts continued racing along the same vein as the truck captain continued jabbering about rules and regulations and how much trouble they would all be in because a detective had entered a restricted building. “No more words.”

 

“Huh?” The captain looked confused as Berkley reached past him to grab one of the heavy fire resistant coats before racing toward the now clearly burning building.

 

As Berkley ran toward the door, the tiny flashes of flame dancing across the edges of the warehouse roof seemed to strobe with each step. As his breath quickened, he drew in traces of the sharp, tangy smoke now settling like a fog over the warehouse parking lot. The commissioner shrugged into the coat as he went. He heard the yells from his men and the irate cries of the firefighters; but, his mind was elsewhere, clearly focused on locating and bringing his man out alive and unscathed. “I can't fail. I'm not allowed to fail this time.”

 

At his goal, he struck the warehouse door and almost cried out when it didn't budge. It seemed locked or blocked from the inside. The heavy, black wooden door seemed to taunt him as it stood against him. He shoved against the door again and felt it shift slightly; but, it wouldn't open. “NO!” He screamed as he used all his anger to strengthen his resolve and rammed into the door again. This time, the recalcitrant slab shifted; one hinge pinged loose inside with an audible metallic ding. Two more hits with his shoulder and he was able to shove the door open and squeeze through.

 

At the edge of the parking lot, Ryo was panting as he strained against Drake and Ted's grasps as they kept him from following the commissioner. “I should have done this. Why did I listen to Dee?” His thoughts turned toward Berkley; he hoped against hope that the commissioner would be able to bring Dee out. His heart leapt a beat as he saw the door slam shut again; a brief burst of flame flared around the edges and was, just as suddenly, gone. “What?” He heard the confused gasps of the two men holding him and knew that he hadn't imagined it.

 

“Dee!” Berkley's voice seemed to echo in the massive warehouse. Inside the structure, he could clearly see the fire had been set; even to his untrained eye, it was clear how. He could see little pots, clay flowerpots, scattered at the base of the warehouse walls; many still had small flames spurting from their mouths. The bottoms of the walls were coated with something black, like tar or asphalt. Snaking, black cables appeared to connect them before leading into the shadows. Above the tar, the walls were nothing but orange, flickering light. The concrete floor seemed to glow from the heat pouring off it. His lungs threatened to seize as he drew in the oven-temperature air. Strangely, the building seemed almost devoid of smoke. He glanced behind him for a moment and saw the doorway was now a solid mass of flames. “It was a trap. A multi-layered trap,” He whispered as the realization hit him.

 

“I set the starters to be tripped by specific actions.”

 

Berkley jerked around searching for the owner of the voice. He'd heard it before and it often haunted his nightmares. The boy, “Man now,” He corrected, was the first arson/homicide of his career. He'd been spared the horror of investigating such a crime scene until he'd been with the force for almost seven years. “Dillon.” He would never forget the look in those gray eyes as he'd interrogated him thirteen years before. “In his confession, he'd said, `I just wanted to see the pretty colors.' The monster was eleven, then, yet, had murdered twenty-seven people in his apartment building, including his mother, father, and infant sister. He'd been tried as a juvenile and released on his twenty-first birthday with his record sealed and no requirements for monitoring. No real repercussions. No real consequences.” As Berkley remembered, he finally comprehended the severity of the situation. “Dee! Get out of here! We need to get out, now!” He knew things had just gotten a lot worse. “His sentence was a joke; a mere slap on the wrist; but, he was still filled with hate. At his sentencing hearing, he swore that he would kill me and everyone connected with me. How could I have forgotten that threat?”

 

“The first trigger was your detective,” Dillon's voice echoed and made Berkley's head pivot from shadow to shadow, searching for a glimpse of the man the young monster had become. “That just set this building to be his funeral pyre. I'm glad you were the second. I've hated you because you tricked me into telling you about my fun.”

 

“You should have been sent away for life. A difference of one year shouldn't have counted.” Berkley continued hunting for either his detective or Dillon. “You knew the difference between right and wrong and murdered those people any way. The arson investigator said the fire had been set deliberately in a way that as many people as possible would be trapped, unable to escape.”

 

“It counted more than you know. This year gave me time to plan and carry it out,” Dillon explained as he giggled. “Your detective is up here,” He yelled after a brief moment where the only sounds were the burning, cackling flames.

 

Berkley looked up and saw the skywalks spanning the reaches of the building. Some were glowing with heat, others appeared to be unaffected by the growing inferno, yet others were in full flame. He squinted against the glare of the flames and spotted a silhouette at the end of the highest walkway. “Dee?”

 

“He's got a gun!” Dee yelled down. He'd heard the commissioner's voice while he'd been searching for an avenue of escape and rushed to the front of the catwalk so he could see the front entrance. He'd discovered the stairs on either side were burning; he'd discovered the back ones were as well. He had little chance of finding a way down, “Alive,” He admitted.

 

“Awe! You're spoiling my fun!” Dillon's voice echoed.

 

As the echo faded, a shot rang out.

 

Dee ducked, believing the shot had been fired at him.

 

“I'm not done playing with you, Dee was it?”

 

Dee cautiously poked his head above the edge of the catwalk and watched as the commissioner sagged to one knee, blood already pouring down his body from the wound in his chest.

 

“Commissioner?” Dee whispered. “Where are you, you damn lunatic!” He screamed as Berkley fell backward to the hard floor.

 

A shadow moved slowly from behind some shielded crates. “I'll have my fun with you. That skywalk will be the last thing standing before the roof collapses. You'll get to see it all before you die.”

 

His voice echoed even more and now, Dee realized why. He could see the glint of an ear-mounted mic, similar to the type singers wore during concerts. “You'll never get away with this.”

 

“I don't care. I just want to have some fun today.” Dillon looked up at Dee. “Some of the fun I missed out on for the last thirteen years. Fun stolen from me by that monster.” He turned back toward the fallen commissioner.

 

Dee drew his back up weapon; he'd lost his main piece when flames had singed his hand as he tried escaping from the walkway. “It doesn't have the range,” He admitted as he glanced at the little .38. It really was a useless gun except in close situations. “Maybe I'll get a lucky shot.” He assumed Berkley was already dead since he'd lost blood so quickly. “He was probably dead before his head hit the ground.” Dee shifted his position until he could use the top rung of the railing to steady his hand. “Now, hold, still.”

 

“Watch me have my fun, Detective,” Dillon said softly right before Dee pulled the trigger. He picked up two of the long boards on the crates he'd been hiding behind. “Fire,” He whispered as if he were speaking to a lover. He walked to the far wall and paused a moment before he stuck each board into the wall of flames. He held them there until they flickered a rich orange. “Yeah. My beautiful ones.”

 

Dee shivered at the caress in Dillon's voice. “Dillon,” Dee yelled in an attempt to get the monster's attention. He had no idea what the man was planning on doing; but, he knew this much, whatever it was, it couldn't be good. “Fire in the hands of a firebug is never a good thing. What is he planning on doing?” Dee wasn't sure; but, he could hear a different sound around him. The crackle of flames seemed to be getting closer. He glanced at the catwalk below and realized it was consumed in flames. He'd been thinking it could be a possible escape route. If he'd climbed over the railing and hung from his catwalk, the distance between the two walkways couldn't have been more than four or five feet. Now, with the flames, he knew that he was truly trapped.

 

“Dee, your commissioner is still alive. I bet you can't see his chest move from where you are. He's panting for breath. I probably hit a lung or maybe even his heart or one of those blood things.” He walked to where Berkley laid in a pool of his own blood. “He's going to hurt,” Dillon sing-songed as he stared down at the injured man.

 

“Alive?” Dee whispered. As he watched closely, he could see that Berkley's arm was moving as if in slow motion. He imagined that he could hear the commissioner's labored breathing. “He's trying to reach his weapon.” Dee gasped at the realization. “With that injury and he's still trying to fight back.” With newfound resolve, Dee drew a deep breath and pushed aside his doubts about his ability to hit a target. He relaxed as he closed out the distraction of the flame, heat, and hints of smoke that swirled around him and focused on Dillon below. “I will hit you.”

 

“Should I give him some hope?”

 

Dillon's question confused Dee and he paused before leaning forward to brace his arm again. As he steadied his hand and placed the sight on Dillon's head of shaggy, black hair, he tried to calm his racing heartbeat. “Shit!” He yelled as he ran his right hand through his hair. He couldn't calm down enough to hold the bead on the target. “How do I make this shot? Ryo's right; I should hit the range more often.”

 

“Yeah. I'll give him some hope.” Dillon stopped moving and stood, patiently waiting as Berkley struggled to reach his shoulder holster. He grinned over Dee's irritation. He'd counted on the detective having a back up weapon. In truth, he'd been disappointed to see the other man lose his weapon at all. He wanted to see just how good these people really were.

 

“My gun should have been drawn when I entered the building,” Berkley thought as his hand slowly inched toward the gun. He ignored the fact that he would have probably lost it when he was shot. He screamed out silently in pain as the rough sleeve of the fire coat brushed over the bullet's entry wound. “What is he waiting for? Just kill me?” Berkley's lips quivered as he watched Dillon's motionless stance. He could see clearly, what the boy had grown into.

 

When he'd been arrested, Dillon had been an eleven-year-old; short, thin-of-build, with a sad, sunken face. Now, as an adult, his years in juvenile detention and three years in Rikers had been etched on every inch of bared skin. His hair was still the thick tousle of jet-black hair that looked like it was hacked off with a knife instead of scissors. The gray eyes, originally sadistic and cold seemed now cast-hardened steel. At some point, his nose had been broken and permitted to heal slightly crooked.

 

Berkley closed his eyes and fought to keep his mind focused on reaching his weapon. The pain caused by the fire coat was constant now as he forced his hand to creep closer to the butt of his gun.

 

“Like what you see?” Dillon chided when Berkley reopened his eyes.

 

With no words left on his breath, Berkley continued studying the arsonist. “His lips seem to have disappeared. Always, were thin,” His silent observation paused as he brushed against his gun. He reached a little further and was able to close his fingers around the comfortable grip; and with a grunt and a jerk, he drew the weapon free of his holster. “Just, kill, me, Dillon,” Berkley managed to gasp out as he started the slow process of dragging the weapon across his body. It seem like hours had gone by before he was forced to pause as his gun seemed to sink into his chest as he pulled it past the wound.

 

“You're doing good.” Dillon turned around and slowly danced with his flaming partners. He would glance at Berkley's progress every couple of turns. “Not there yet.”

 

To distract himself, Berkley continued comparing the differences between the old Dillon and this new monster that danced with a pair of flaming boards. The pierced ears and eyebrow weren't present thirteen years ago. The tattoo of flames around his neck weren't there either. When Dillon came to a stop and stared at him, Rose realized that the flames from the boards were licking along the other's hands and forearms. “He must be covered in flames,” Berkley thought as he stared at the tattoo flames that were slowly blistering from the very real flames.

 

“Not, bad,” Dillon whispered. “I didn't think you'd get that far.”

 

“Huh?” Berkley struggled to move his arm a little further. His elbow was scraping along the floor now. With a sigh, his arm fell to his side. “Just need to aim and pull the trigger.” His hand seemed to lose strength and his vision blurred around the edges as he began to lose consciousness. “Not yet, I can't stop, not yet.”

 

“Hope, is, done,” Dillon said slowly as he smirked at the man who had been responsible for his conviction all those years before. “Paybacks burn, Bitch.”

 

Dee's eyes opened wide as he realized the purpose of the boards. “He's going to burn him alive!” He shivered at the realization and quickly took aim and fired at Dillon.

 

“Oh,” Berkley's thought never finished as the board that Dillon tossed struck his legs, lighting his pants up immediately. The soft cotton he always wore; now was the perfect carrier for the killing flames. His scream echoed through the warehouse blocking out the sound of Dee's shot.

 

“Yeah. Pretty Bitch.” Dillon smiled and watched as the flames flared around the edges of the heavy fire coat. He frowned when he realized the flickering tongues of orange seemed unable to go further. “Damn coat,” He mumbled.

 

“Rose,” Dee whispered as he steadied his arm on the rail. He tried desperately to keep his hand steady for as he took another shot. “First Dillon. Then, I'll be kind, Commissioner. I'll put you our of your misery. The fire department isn't coming and I wouldn't wish burning to death on my worse enemy. It must be a horrible way to die.” He struggled to line up the shot and pulled the trigger.

 

“Missed, Detective,” Dillon sing-songed, never even looked at the skywalk. He was staring intently at the fire burning into Berkley's flesh. He drew a deep breath in and let it out in a contented sigh. “Smells wonderful. Don't you think?”

 

“He doesn't care. He doesn't think I'll make the shot,” Dee realized. He was angry, now. “Calm. I've got to make the shots count.” He steadied his hand again and tried lining up for a third shot. He closed out the sounds of the flames covering Berkley's lower body. Somehow, they seemed louder than the flames licking along the walls and catwalks. He pulled the trigger.

 

“Missed again.” Dillon turned and spared Dee a quick glance. “You're not a very good shot, Dee. Maybe one of the snipers should have come in here instead.”

 

“Okay. Think. All four shots were low. I saw the concrete chip up almost five feet away from him. My aim can't be that far off,” Dee thought as he drew a bead on Dillon's head.

 

“Aim higher, Dee,” Berkley thought as he tried to force the words to his lips. He could barely feel anything anymore. Even with the brilliant light of the flames, his world was slowly fading into darkness. “You need to aim higher. It's necessary because you're shooting from a different height. Different parabolic curve.” Berkley struggled with his own weapon, trying to shift his grip so he could take one shot, at least.

 

The sound of the next blasts of Dee's weapon faded away in the crackle of flames. Dillon was unfazed by Dee's attempts to kill him. He'd counted four shots, having missed the one drowned out by Berkley's scream, and knew there couldn't be many more bullets left at Dee's disposal. “Oh, well. No. More. Fun.” He stepped closer to Berkley; figuring that Dee wouldn't risk a shot that might hit his superior. “Shit,” Dillon said as a bullet ripped through his neck just as he released the second board. His look of surprised clearly illustrated the fact that he never dreamt Dee would take the shot.

 

Both aims had been perfect. The board landed on Berkley's left arm and shoulder; the flickering flames quickly established a hold on the silently screaming man. They licked at the side of his face before climbing into his hair. Dee's bullet had been perfect. It had ripped through Dillon's neck, shattering against his spine. The fire starter stumbled two steps, his body ignoring the fact that it was dead, before collapsing to the floor five feet away from Berkley.

 

Now sure of his aim, Dee aimed at Berkley's head. “I'm not doing this out of hatred, Sir. This is the only mercy and thanks I can show you.” He sighed as he felt the lick of the flames beneath him. His feet were burning inside his shoes because of the heat from the skywalk. The girders were groaning as they lost their strength. Dee closed his eyes and prayer aloud, “May the Lord pardon you of whatever sins or faults you have committed.” Dee opened his eyes and watched as the flames continued to spread. “Amen. I wish I could do more.” He pulled the trigger and heard … nothing. “What?” Dee hit the button to open his barrel and began to cry when he realized that he was out of bullets. There was one empty chamber where he'd forgotten to reload his weapon completely after practice. “I used them all up. Now what?”

 

“I'm sorry,” Berkley said silently. His lips moved but uttered no sound. The pain had stopped a couple of minutes ago and even the brilliant flashes of orange had faded to a hazy light. He couldn't see the flames nor could he hear his detective. The world had faded to the one thing he could feel, the floor under his back, and the one thing he could smell, his own blood. “I'm sorry,” He kept repeating in silent breaths.

 

“I'm sorry,” Dee said quietly. “I love you, Ryo.” He knelt down and pulled his Rosary out of his chest pocket. He pressed his fingers against the first bead and began reciting the prayers he's grown up with. In his mind, he handed himself to God and prayed that both he and Rose would soon find peace, free of pain.

 

Dee's fingers moved along the Rosary Beads as he began. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

 

Next bead, “I believe in God, the Father almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth. And, in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate; was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into Hell. The third day He rose again from the dead. He ascended into Heaven, and sits at the right hand of God, the Father almighty. He shall come again to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen.”

 

His fingers moved to the next bead. “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

 

Next bead, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinner, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

 

Feeling at peace, Dee laid back and waited for either rescue or Heaven.