[February 13th] [Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?] All That's Past

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Title: All That's Past
Day/Theme: February 13th - One sword dividing slumber
Series: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Character/Pairing: The Dying Informant, Greg, The Chief, The Voice
Rating: T/PG-13

Will be cross-posted to ladybug_tales.


Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
All That's Past
By Lucky_Ladybug

Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! It was inspired by the Dying Informant sketch in the episode The Taking of the Towers, but it is not meant to be thought of as taking place during that episode, for two reasons. One, I find it too eerie to write about that particular crime. And two, my timeline takes place in the present day, thereby making it impossible to steal that particular loot. The crime in this ficlet is unnamed. However, the dialogue between Scott and Greg when Scott is delivering the clues is as accurate as possible to the dialogue in the episode. Many thanks to Kaze and Crystal Rose for plot help!


Greg had watched Scott come flying into his office so many times. As the poor, ill-fated Dying Informant, he had been beaten, drowned, poisoned, hit by a car, impaled, and just about anything else imaginable. He always struggled to deliver the clues needed to advance on the case, usually with repeated promptings from Greg as he started to slip away, but with the exception of one horrible time, Greg had always been able to revive him.

Now Scott had crashed into his office again and was laying on the floor, gasping in pain. Greg stared at him, then at the Gumshoes. "I think we have a serious problem here," he told them, before hurrying over and kneeling on the floor next to the poor man.

"Scott!" he exclaimed. "Scott, buddy, what's the matter?"

He reached down, carefully raising Scott's upper body and supporting him with his arms. The hapless informant's chest was heaving as he struggled for breath. His fedora tumbled backwards off his head, revealing the disarray of blond curls. Greg was not sure what had happened to him this time, but obviously it was bad.

Still . . . he would pull through, wouldn't he? He always did. . . .

Greg had to be careful what he thought; he had long ago fallen into a trap of taking Scott's recoveries for granted and not treating him very kind. But a tragic series of events a while back had made him realize what he was doing, and since then he had tried to be different. He was honestly concerned when Scott fell in on the floor, yet now he was so afraid that something would happen and Scott would not survive that he kept trying to tell himself Scott would be fine.

Weakly Scott gripped Greg's arm, looking up at him as he struggled to speak.

"I saw Double Trouble dancing in the street at Carnival!" he choked out, his eyes fluttering closed.

Greg gave him a gentle shake. "Carnival?" he repeated. "Then they must be in Rio. . . ."

Scott cried out as he snapped back to consciousness. "No," he gasped, "it's in the Caribbean. One country with two names. . . . The people are . . . African!"

"African," Greg said, as Scott started to go under again.

The blond drew in a rasping breath. ". . . And Indian!" he continued.

"Indian," Greg said.

Scott started to sag back, but struggled for awareness. "And European!" he exclaimed. "And . . . and . . . Chinese! And . . ." He trailed off, his eyes sinking closed. Greg tensed.

His eyes flew open. "Lebanese!" he managed to say. He started to sink against Greg again.

". . . Is that it?" Greg asked. His mind was working quickly, plotting out possible strategies.

Trinidad and Tobago. . . . Double Trouble had taken the loot to Trinidad and Tobago. . . . And they probably would not want to leave, since it was the season of Carnival. Maybe ACME would be able to track them down before they skipped out. . . . They could corner the recalcitrant twerps and make an arrest, then bring the loot back to its rightful home.

Scott was stiffening in his arms. At last Greg snapped to, fully focusing on the battered man. Scott's eyes had blanked, gazing at something distant that only he could see, perhaps something not there at all. But then, suddenly, he looked right at Greg, the pain etched into his features.

"That's all," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Later."

And then he fell limp for the final time, his eyes rolling back into his head as the weary lids closed, his head turning to the side.

Greg stared at him. He should be able to revive Scott, just as always. But he was not stirring. His body was growing heavy in Greg's grasp, with no visible hints of life.

Greg was still holding Scott's wrist with his other hand. He took it up now, feeling for the pulse. It had to be there . . . it had to be. . . . But there was only a cold silence. The spot where he should be able to feel a gentle throbbing was still.

The Gumshoes were gawking in disbelief and shock. Was . . . was he really dead? They had heard tales about the mysterious Dying Informant who staggered back to ACME in the worst of conditions to warn them of problems and update them on the criminals' locations, but they were never sure if he actually died or if he just fell unconscious. All they knew was that he was always supposed to come back.

He was not coming back.

And Greg was just beginning to realize it. What he had feared was coming true.

"Scott?" he choked out. "Scotty . . . ?" He cradled the lifeless body closer. What had he done?! Once again he had not even been thinking much about Scott's injuries. He had let his mind wander, focusing on the thought of capturing Double Trouble. And they would not even have the information if not for Scott. He had given his life to get it to them.

Greg started to rock back and forth, hugging the body of his childhood friend. Without even fully thinking about it, he started to sob.

The green door at the far side of the office opened and the Chief stepped out, her brow furrowed in concern.

"Greg!" she exclaimed. "What is going on out here?!"

The Gumshoes, not sure at all what to say or do, looked from the concerned Chief to their instructor still sobbing on the floor.

". . . It's Scotty," Greg cried, looking up at the Chief. "He . . . he's dead! . . ."

She stiffened, her expression changing to horrified alarm. "Oh no. . . . Greg, are you sure?!" she said, hurrying over and bending down next to them.

Greg gave a numb nod. "I'm sure," he said. "He . . . he's not breathing . . . his heart's not beating. . . . His body just gave out on him!"

The Chief took Scott's other wrist, searching with care for a pulse. Greg was right---there was nothing. When she touched his neck, she found the same result.

She looked back to the stricken recruiting officer, her friend of so many years. "Greg . . ." Where were the words to say? She was grieved over the loss of such a young and faithful agent, especially one whom she had personally looked after and guided. But Greg, who had known Scott since they had both been children, was feeling a far deeper grief and anguish.

"He would want you to continue the case," she said at last, knowing it was true. "We can't let his death be in vain; we still have to catch Double Trouble."

Greg sniffled. He knew the Chief was right. But at the moment he was not sure he even had the strength to get up and get on with the case. And the others . . . they had to be told. . . .

". . . What . . . what will happen to him?" he managed to say.

She laid a hand on his arm. "I'll call the morgue here," she said, her voice quiet. "They'll take him."

Greg's nod was weak. ". . . Okay," he choked out. "And I . . . I'll tell the others. . . . Somehow. . . ."

He gave Scott's pale, lifeless form one last, disconsolate look. Then, gently, he laid the body on the floor and stood up, drawing a shaking breath. In a daze he crossed to the monitor and picked up his notes.

"Gumshoes, name the island where Double Trouble has gone," he said, his voice hollow.

Only one of them got the correct answer. They moved on, but Greg was distracted. He stared back at the silent form on the floor. Why couldn't Scott wake up again? In all the times he had appeared to die, he had always come back. Greg would hear a sudden gasping for breath and Scott would struggle up, alive in spite of whatever ailed him. After a while Greg had come to expect it. Lately he had feared it not happening. And now it would not happen again.

Later.

Scott had spoken that final word as he had passed away, as if he had believed he would be back. Or as if he was speaking of some far-distant occasion when they would meet again. . . .

Greg gripped his notes in his hand, permanently creasing them. ". . . Later, Scott," he said under his breath, not even conscious of the fact that he had spoken aloud.

A deep sigh came from above. Greg started, looking up near the ceiling. Before he could speak, a booming voice said,

"Alright, you can have him back."

Greg stared. ". . . Excuse me?!" he exclaimed.

"I can see you have learned your lesson," the Voice told him. "Life isn't something to be taken for granted. You've changed in the past months."

Greg set the notes aside, feeling a bit of anger rising in his heart. "You didn't . . . kill him, did you?!" he cried.

The room shook. "Of course not!" thundered the Voice. "His injuries killed him. But I held off on letting him go back while I watched you."

Greg took a deep breath, trying to get his frayed nerves under control. He was angry that he had been tested this way. What if he had told Sean and Elliott and Barry and they had believed Scott was dead for good? The Chief already believed it. News was probably all over ACME by now.

"I have changed," he said. ". . . I . . . I made a mistake again today, and I've been paying for it. I want Scott to live. I want him to be okay. . . ."

"And so he will be," the Voice said. "Yo! Yo, Scott. Wake up."

Greg and the Gumshoes all turned to stare at the motionless body. Scott stirred, his fingers curling as he turned his head to the side.

Instantly Greg was kneeling beside his friend, again moving to support him. "Scott?!" he exclaimed, drawing an arm around the blond's shoulders. "Scotty, are you with me? Can you hear me?"

Scott's eyes slowly opened. He blinked, trying to focus on Greg. A tired but triumphant smile crossed his features.

"Loud and clear, Greggy," he said.

Greg laughed, pulling Scott into a joyous hug. "You had me worried there, buddy!" he said. "I thought you weren't going to make it!"

Scott brought his arms around his friend. "I kind of did, too," he admitted.

Again the Chief's door opened and she came out in concern. "Greg," she said, "the morgue will be up here soon. . . ." But she trailed off as she saw Scott embracing Greg.

Greg looked up at her, this time in joy. "He's okay, Chief! The Voice brought him back. Scott the Dying Informant is alive!"

Scott grinned, reaching for his fallen hat. It had been so long since he had been met with such concern from Greg. They had grown closer again after the incident at the bridge. And he hoped it would continue. Of course, he was sickened that he had given Greg such a terrible scare tonight. He had not meant to at all. But he was happy to know that Greg cared enough to be devastated.

The Chief was still staring at the scene. But then, recovering her composure, she looked to the Dying Informant---a faithful, loyal, courageous upholder of justice.

"Scott . . ." she said.

He placed his hat on his head, looking at her. There was a stern tone to her voice.

". . . Yes, Chief?" he asked, hesitant.

"You worried us," she said.

"I know," he said, the sick feeling increasing. "I'm sorry. . . ."

She looked at him. "You were hurt in the line of duty," she said. "Because of the information you brought, we've been able to stay on Double Trouble's trail. Good work!"

He blinked. ". . . Thank you, Chief," he said.

He got to his feet, stumbling a bit. Greg stood as well, helping his friend get his balance. The Chief watched them, then gave a thoughtful nod and turned to head back to her office.

"I'll cancel the morgue," she said.

"Uh, yeah," Greg said, blinking in realization, "that would be a good idea, Chief. . . ." He looked to Scott. "Are you sure you're okay? You're kind of wobbly here. . . ."

"I'm okay," Scott said with a smile and a nod. Then a worried look passed over his features. "I'd better go find El and Sean and Barry," he realized. "I hope they haven't already heard about me being . . . well . . . dead. . . ."

Greg nodded. "You'd better go find them," he agreed. "I could help you look. . . ."

"I can manage," Scott reassured him. "You've got some recalcitrant twerps to catch! But I'll be back in a while!" He pushed his hat back on his head as he shuffled off, waving to Greg as he went. "Later!"

Greg watched him go, shaking his head. A slow smile crept over his features.

"Later, Scott."