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31_days2011-06-27 10:32 am
insaneladybug.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2011-06-27 10:32 am
[June 27th] [West Side Story (movie verse)] No Distractions
Title: No Distractions
Day/Theme: June 27th - When you choose to do right, life is easy - no distractions
Series: West Side Story (movie verse, because Simon Oakland is the only Schrank for me!)
Character/Pairing: Lieutenant Schrank, Sergeant Krupke
Rating: T/PG-13
The house had been condemned long ago, but the street gangs could not care less. Just like with everything else, they made up their own rules and ignored everything that the adults told them. When Lieutenant Schrank and Sergeant Krupke got a call that teens had been sighted there again they left in frustrated exasperation.
The kids were going to get themselves killed, Schrank snarled as they drove. Didn’t they care about their own lives? Or were they stupid enough to think that they were invincible?
That was probably the case. And the gangs had already started to roughhouse by the time the police arrived. The beams, precariously loose and threatening to fall, were groaning. But the kids, too caught up in their mock fights, could not care less.
They scattered when they saw Schrank and Krupke entering the front door. One girl ran past a rotting support pillar that had long ago been placed in the middle of the floor. She knocked it loose, in turn disturbing the beam it had been holding in place. It groaned, pulling free from the ceiling. It was going to hit her; there was no way around that.
Schrank swore under his breath and dived, grabbing the stupid kid. There was barely enough time for Krupke to react. When he ran forward, it was already too late. The beam struck Schrank hard, barely missing the girl, and then slammed to the rotting wooden floor along with both of them.
For a moment Krupke could only stop and stare. Neither was moving. Were they both . . .
The kid started screaming. Schrank laid still, his arms still around her waist from the tackle.
Krupke approached the fallen figure in numbed horror and disbelief. The teenage punk, though too stunned to move at first, had now scrambled out from the limp arms’ grasp and was kneeling to the side in utter hysteria.
“He’sdeadhe’sdeadhe’sdead!” she shrieked, followed by a stream of profanities and street talk.
Krupke sank to his knees, fighting back the dizziness. His heart continued to pound in fury, not easing up for a moment. Shaking, he reached out a hand and grasped the other man’s shoulder, trying to turn him onto his back. The body fell into the new position like a ragdoll, the left arm slipping to the floor with a weak yet loud thump.
Somehow Krupke managed to steady his hand—mostly—as he pressed his fingers to the other’s neck. Even though he was praying to feel the life-giving throb, even though this could not really be happening, he was terrified that it was happening and that there would be nothing to feel.
He was right.
But he still could not accept it. He bent down, frantic, trying to hear a heartbeat or feel even a faint breath. There had to be something. There had to be; he was just overlooking it. Somehow. Some way.
But he was not.
At last he pushed himself away from the body, staring, haunted. What could he say? What could he do? There was nothing; it was hopeless. The blow had been too harsh. Schrank had probably been killed instantly, feeling no pain. But that was only a minor comfort at best. Krupke had wanted, he had longed, he had prayed, for some indication of life, some knowledge that there was still a chance to save his partner of so many years. Instead he was dead, just like that.
And then the hoodlum was speaking again, actually saying something that qualified as a word. One tortured, confused word. “Why?”
Krupke looked over his shoulder, seeing the emotions on her face that had become all too familiar. The kid had just wanted to rebel, maybe have a little fun. She had not had any idea that someone could be badly hurt—or Heaven forbid, die—from it. She had ignored all of their warnings until it had become too late.
She trembled. “He hated us JDs. Why did he get himself killed for one of us? Why?”
Krupke clenched a fist. “Because he was a decent person,” he snapped. “Yeah, he yelled and he screamed and he hated what you stand for and what you do. But he only ever wanted to get you and every other hooligan in the city to clean up your act. You put other people in danger just like you do yourselves! That’s what he never could get through your heads.”
He looked back to the lifeless body. “He saw you going to get killed by that stupid beam and he jumped in to save you, even though he knew he’d put himself at risk doing it. It was the only thing he could do. You hated him; would you have done that for him?”
The kid fell silent. She had no answer; she did not know.
Krupke continued to stare at Schrank as he reached for his walkie-talkie. “Send an ambulance,” he croaked into the speaker. His throat felt so dry. “And the coroner. Officer down.”
Day/Theme: June 27th - When you choose to do right, life is easy - no distractions
Series: West Side Story (movie verse, because Simon Oakland is the only Schrank for me!)
Character/Pairing: Lieutenant Schrank, Sergeant Krupke
Rating: T/PG-13
The house had been condemned long ago, but the street gangs could not care less. Just like with everything else, they made up their own rules and ignored everything that the adults told them. When Lieutenant Schrank and Sergeant Krupke got a call that teens had been sighted there again they left in frustrated exasperation.
The kids were going to get themselves killed, Schrank snarled as they drove. Didn’t they care about their own lives? Or were they stupid enough to think that they were invincible?
That was probably the case. And the gangs had already started to roughhouse by the time the police arrived. The beams, precariously loose and threatening to fall, were groaning. But the kids, too caught up in their mock fights, could not care less.
They scattered when they saw Schrank and Krupke entering the front door. One girl ran past a rotting support pillar that had long ago been placed in the middle of the floor. She knocked it loose, in turn disturbing the beam it had been holding in place. It groaned, pulling free from the ceiling. It was going to hit her; there was no way around that.
Schrank swore under his breath and dived, grabbing the stupid kid. There was barely enough time for Krupke to react. When he ran forward, it was already too late. The beam struck Schrank hard, barely missing the girl, and then slammed to the rotting wooden floor along with both of them.
For a moment Krupke could only stop and stare. Neither was moving. Were they both . . .
The kid started screaming. Schrank laid still, his arms still around her waist from the tackle.
Krupke approached the fallen figure in numbed horror and disbelief. The teenage punk, though too stunned to move at first, had now scrambled out from the limp arms’ grasp and was kneeling to the side in utter hysteria.
“He’sdeadhe’sdeadhe’sdead!” she shrieked, followed by a stream of profanities and street talk.
Krupke sank to his knees, fighting back the dizziness. His heart continued to pound in fury, not easing up for a moment. Shaking, he reached out a hand and grasped the other man’s shoulder, trying to turn him onto his back. The body fell into the new position like a ragdoll, the left arm slipping to the floor with a weak yet loud thump.
Somehow Krupke managed to steady his hand—mostly—as he pressed his fingers to the other’s neck. Even though he was praying to feel the life-giving throb, even though this could not really be happening, he was terrified that it was happening and that there would be nothing to feel.
He was right.
But he still could not accept it. He bent down, frantic, trying to hear a heartbeat or feel even a faint breath. There had to be something. There had to be; he was just overlooking it. Somehow. Some way.
But he was not.
At last he pushed himself away from the body, staring, haunted. What could he say? What could he do? There was nothing; it was hopeless. The blow had been too harsh. Schrank had probably been killed instantly, feeling no pain. But that was only a minor comfort at best. Krupke had wanted, he had longed, he had prayed, for some indication of life, some knowledge that there was still a chance to save his partner of so many years. Instead he was dead, just like that.
And then the hoodlum was speaking again, actually saying something that qualified as a word. One tortured, confused word. “Why?”
Krupke looked over his shoulder, seeing the emotions on her face that had become all too familiar. The kid had just wanted to rebel, maybe have a little fun. She had not had any idea that someone could be badly hurt—or Heaven forbid, die—from it. She had ignored all of their warnings until it had become too late.
She trembled. “He hated us JDs. Why did he get himself killed for one of us? Why?”
Krupke clenched a fist. “Because he was a decent person,” he snapped. “Yeah, he yelled and he screamed and he hated what you stand for and what you do. But he only ever wanted to get you and every other hooligan in the city to clean up your act. You put other people in danger just like you do yourselves! That’s what he never could get through your heads.”
He looked back to the lifeless body. “He saw you going to get killed by that stupid beam and he jumped in to save you, even though he knew he’d put himself at risk doing it. It was the only thing he could do. You hated him; would you have done that for him?”
The kid fell silent. She had no answer; she did not know.
Krupke continued to stare at Schrank as he reached for his walkie-talkie. “Send an ambulance,” he croaked into the speaker. His throat felt so dry. “And the coroner. Officer down.”