Participants:
| Scene Title | Sorry Mary |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | It's a miracle! Ryans survives the jump from the dam with only bruises. |
| Date | July 3, 2010 |
The woods outside of Seattle, Washington
If this is death, then why does it hurt so much?
Benjamin Ryans feels rather beat up, it's the product of being tumbled down the steep sloping water way. He barely remembers beyond the first moment he stepped off and was surrounded by the cold shock of water. The world went black, but he knows it hurt.
Eyes slowly slide open, then blink several times to get the world to comes into focus. Movement above him sharpens into the black claw like branches of trees, leaves spread into a canopy above him, a stiff breeze makes them flutter, blotting out the starry sky above occasionally.
There is no knowing how far he floated down the river, but the dam is still heard as a distant roar filling his ears, so maybe not far enough to relax. It also stands as a reminder that he needs to get moving, a search would be on to find whoever jumped. A sharp twist of worry grips his stomach.
Did they see who I was?
There would be time to find that out when he got back to New York. No doubt Harper will be there to greet him happily, with cuffs in hand, if he had been caught and asking for all the Company secrets.
For the moment however, he concentrates on the fact he feels weightless and cold. He's still in the water, it laps gently against him and the flow of the river is pushing him up against something. His eyes moves from the night time sky to whatever has him. It quickly becomes clear that he's snagged on a branch where it droops to dip into the moving water.
An aching arm is lifted from where it floats in the water, so he can grab at the branch. It takes a moment to get his fingers to work and grab the rough barked surface. Once he's got a good hold, he brings his other hand up. Holding on there for a moment, he gets his bearings and waits for his head to stop swimming, before he uses the branch to pull himself towards the shore.
Fingers stiff with the chill in the water slips when the muscles give a small spasm and the other loses it's grip when his weight is pulled against it by the river. There is a heart stopping moment where Ryans thinks he'll get sucked further down the river, but in the last moment he snags another branch, saving him from an unknown fate. He can't prevent the huffed sigh of relief, before continuing to pull himself to shore. Finally after a bit of effort he finds footing in the soft mud of the river and slogs up the river bank. He drops to the ground heavily and lays there for a long moment.
He made it.
It's a bitter thought, rather then being pleased to have lived. Shifting to sit up, he also knows that nothing broken either, though he's pretty sure he's got some serious bruises, especially the right side of his ribs. So with a pained groan, much like he use to utter when he was actual his age, Ryans gets to his feet.
When he is sure his legs are not going to give out from under him, Ryans takes a moment to pull off the leather jacket made heavier with the water. He holds it up with one hand and frowns, gaze lifting to the rushing waters. Gritting his teeth against the sore protests of his body, he chucks it out into the rushing water and watches it is swept down river, Balfour's keys carried with it. Hopefully, if it's found any good evidence will be destroyed but the muddy churning water and the other two dams further down.
That done, his fingers slide through wet hair, combing it out of his face, the ball cap long gone. One more long glance down the night blackened river, he slowly turns toward the woods and starts the long trek.
Several hours later
It takes time and a lot of walking, with exhaustion dogging each step and threatening to pull him down, before Ryans stumbles on a small two lane road. The sky is already more gray then black, a testament of how much time he's wandered the woods looking for any sign.
His luck only gets better when headlights blaze through the gray morning, making Benjamin have to lift his hand to block it. His other hand rests at his back, where the grip of a pistol can be found under the hem of his polo shirt.
An old rusty truck rolls to a stop near him, the engine rumbles roughly with age. An man so old, he's probably the original owner — He's even older then Ryans' true age — leans across the seat over his old hound dog.
How stereotyped could one get?
Aged eyes, taken what of the Company agents appearance he can see. Concern furrows his brows even as he grins. “Hey there sonny, you look like you have had a hell of an adventure. You lost?”
By now — thankfully — Ryans' clothes are mostly dry, he looks more disheveled then anything. Moving to the passenger window, he gingerly rests and arm on the side of the truck so he can lean over and gives the man his best impression of a friendly smile. “They there, you are a sight for sore eyes. Got lost hiking.”
Eyes narrow and the old man makes a soft tsking sound. “Well now, can't be having that, hop on in… hop on it.” Straighting in his seat, he points down the road with a hand that trembles with age. “There is a diner down the road. We can get you there and you can call whoever you need ta pick you up. Get you a warm cup of coffee, too.”
“My thanks.” Benjamin rumbles, grabbing the door handle, having to give it a good jerk to get it open. He slides in the cab, glancing at the old hound dog, it's face nearly white with age, as it snuffles at him curiously. The dog get's it's long floppy ears rubbed for it's efforts, by the exhausted man.
“So what's your name young man.” The question chirped by the old man as he continues the journey. The whole truck vibrates roughly and Ryans can't help but wonder how it stays in one piece.
“Richard… Richard Blaine.” His gaze cuts over the driver, as he offers that. It's a legitimate name. He has a separate set of ID for it. The Company doesn't know about that name, he only uses it in situations like this.
“No kidding?” A grin lacking a few teeth is flashed at Ryans, “Just like in Casablanca! Love that old movie. One o' my favorites. These new fangled movies now, with their big explosions and gory violence… I don't like them.”
Ryans can't help but smirk, his own mother is a big Bogart fan.
He hasn't seen her in sometime, mainly cause if she saw him younger like this, it might give her a heart attack.
Roughly, a half an hour later
Standing at the payphone, receiver to his ear, he waves farewell to the old man, as the old truck coughs it's way out of the parking lot. Once the man is gone, Ryans lets his gaze lift skyward as the morning sun starts to color it in warm colors, making the scattered clouds in the sky look as if they are burning.
He sighs softly while the phone buzzes in his ear, his heart is heavy with regret. Eyes close out the beautiful sight, as for once they actually prickle with the threat of tears. Not one make it far enough to glisten in his lashes or slide down his cheek, but the threat was brought on by one thought as it floats around in his head, it's a mournful thought.
Sorry, Mary. God has a cruel sense of humor.