Chapter Text
The boy seated on the examination bed was too thin. There were a lot of other “too” statements Dr. Lake could have said as well. Too bruised, too small for his age, too hopeless. His head was hung; long, unkempt and greasy black hair covering his face. He wore a pair of too big jeans, stained and a hole in the knee of the left side, the hems falling just short of a worn pair of trainers. The t-shirt was also a size too large and stained as well. His hands sat in his lap, clasped tightly around each other.
“Your name?” she asked.
“James, Lebedev,” the boy replied, voice subdued.
Barbara entered it into the electronic record.
“Birth date?”
“October 10th, 2002.”
Barbara gave a nod and typed it in. He was fourteen then.
The boy had been dragged in by police officers, a Detective Louis Scott had given her warning to be careful with the “suspect”. She glanced at the door knowing that one of those officers was waiting outside in case the teenager “tried” anything.
She looked over to the child on the examination bed. He looked the opposite of someone waiting to try something.
“Do you have any allergies? Medical conditions? A family history of cancer, or something like that?”
The boy raised his head and peered at her with startled and slightly confused eyes. He slowly shook his head no. It gave Barbara answer enough. The boy had no idea of any of those things, which meant it would be better to err on the side of caution and make a note of possible allergic reactions or unknown medical problems. She had a feeling his medical file was going to be revisited sooner rather than later.
“Alright, James,” Barbara said, standing up, “let me get a look at you.”
The boy looked up again, still startled and now a little fearful. He reminded her of an injured animal. The police outside saw a wolf, she saw a deer.
She stepped forward, attempting to smile reassuringly. He tensed, hands moving to the bed and clenching at the edges, his eyes darted down, still wide and scared.
“Sit up straight,” she said.
The boy flinched, and immediately straightened.
“I’ll just be checking your breathing first,” she held her stethoscope up.
The boy nervously hazarded a look at it before staring hard at the ground again.
Barbara stepped forward and pressed the piece of metal against the boy’s chest. He flinched slightly at the contact but didn’t draw away.
“Deep breath.”
The boy sucked in a breath and then held it.
“Let it out,” she instructed.
He did so. She pressed the stethoscope against his back and they repeated the process. From there she did basic things, giving him a general check up: eyes and ears. The boy possibly needed glasses, but that was something for the file. For whatever reason this teenager had been pulled in by the police, and though she had no idea why, a baseline was a good place to start. He had no file on hand, and they were at the only hospital in the area, and when asked if he had a basic practitioner that he went to for check ups he had merely stared blankly at her.
Those things done, Barbara moved on to the reason the police had pulled him in here: general bruising from what the Detective had said was an arduous chase and capture.
“Does anywhere hurt more than the others?”
The boy shrugged.
“If you don’t answer honestly I won’t be able to help you.”
The boy said nothing. Barbara nearly let out a sigh of frustration.
“I’m going to check you over for anything broken, you let me know if it hurts or if you are uncomfortable.”
The boy gave no sign of acknowledgement.
Hands running over the boy’s arms she hated to note the roughness of the skin. Malnourished, dehydrated, bruised and currently quite dirty. She moved onto his shoulders and collarbone. He made no reaction. She reached his ribs. He flinched violently as she passed her hand lightly over the left side.
She stopped, fingers gently palpitating the area. The boy let out a hiss and he jerked his head, blue eyes staring at her with pain and anger, they shimmered almost unnaturally. Barbara was surprised at the animalistic threat, one from defense, which shone in his gaze and she drew back. The boy swallowed hard and let his eyes drop again.
“Your rib is fractured, maybe broken. I’m putting you in for x-rays.”
“No.”
The boy had spoken for the first time since she had stepped into the room
“I’m sorry?” Barbara said, not liking how the boy was continually surprising her.
The boy shook his head violently before slipping off the examination table and starting for the door.
“Hey, we’re not done here,” she said sharply.
“My dad’s here, we’re done.”
Barbara frowned, unsure how the boy could know that, and wondering if he was just saying that to get out. A moment later the door opened and a tall, austere looking man in a blue turtleneck and brown slacks and blazer stood there. His green eyes jumped to her and then landed on the boy.
“Jim! What happened?”
The man surged forward, a careful hand reaching out and coming to rest on the teenager’s shoulder. The boy shrunk, but didn’t flinch.
This was his father. The whole situation warped, and the little bit of concern and motherly pity she’d been unintentionally summoning for the boy diminished. Maybe punk/suspect was the correct term in describing him.
“Why are you here, Mr. Strickler?” The boy’s tone wasn’t rude, or dismissive. It was polite and inquiring.
“You always did ask foolish questions,” the man, Mr. Strickler, said, then, seeming to have determined that his discussion with the boy was over, he looked to Barbara, “excuse me, doctor, is James okay?”
Barbara opened her mouth to answer when another figure appeared. A man, slightly shorter than Mr. Strickler and more burly. His hair was the same raven black as her patient’s, only a few streaks of silver in it, and his eyes a dark brown. His face held the same structure as that of James. There was something about him which was ominously familiar.
“Jimmy! Get over here!” he snapped.
This time the boy did flinch, glancing pleadingly at the man, who Barbara had thought was his father, before he hunched down and obediently walked over to this new figure. The short tempered man turned, already leaving.
Barbara’s duties as a doctor came back to her.
“Wait!”
The man halted, turning around and pinning her with an aggressively annoyed and put upon glare.
“I need to talk to James’ father,” she looked hesitantly between the two men, “about his injuries. He needs a x-ray but he is refusing to get one, he has at least one broken or fractured rib.”
“Boy doesn’t need shit, I don’t want some quack doctor telling me what to do with my son.”
“Excuse me?” Barbara replied, taken off guard by his hostility.
“Get to the car, Jimmy.”
The boy gave a nod of his head, walking out of the room. They migrated to just outside the examination room door. This time Detective Scott stepped in, a hand landing on the boy’s shoulder.
“I still have a few questions about why your son was running away from the area of a crime scene.”
Jim looked extremely uncomfortable, the tension in his body evident to Barbara. Whatever was happening was beyond her knowledge.
“Wait, officer, please, maybe another time would be best,” Mr. Strickler was stepping in, carefully extricating Jim from the firm, but not harmful, grip of the detective and placing the boy behind him, acting as a shield.
“I’m sure it has been a trying day for you, and for young Jim here, but I can assure you that running is not a sign of guilt, and that Jim, an exemplary student of mine, has good reason for his actions.”
“Student?” Detective Scott said incredulously.
“Yes, I am the history teacher at Arcadia High, Jim is in my freshman class and a member of the chess club.”
“We still need a statement.”
“A better time can be arranged, please.”
The Detective eyed Mr. Strickler suspiciously before his gaze settled on the man Barbara assumed was Mr. Lebedev.
“You’re his father?”
“Yes.”
“I guess a better time is a better time,” Detective Scott said coldly, pulling out a small piece of paper, “if you’d call me as soon as your son is feeling a little better.”
Mr. Lebedev took the business card, ill-mannered glare meeting the detective’s cold one, and proceeded to jam it into his pocket.
“We’re going,” he stated, a rough hand settling on his son’s shoulder and nearly frog marching him away.
Mr. Strickler managed a weak smile which compunctiously substituted for Mr. Lebedev’s lack of manners.
It was only once they were gone that Barbara remembered the broken ribs and incomplete medical review.
“Something isn’t right about that,” the detective murmured, still staring after where they’d disappeared to.
“His ribs were broken,” Barbara said, addressing, much like the detective, an unpresent figure.
They caught each other’s attention in this invocation to the world at large and Barbara found the detective’s intensive gaze upon her.
“What other kind of injuries?”
Barbara thought of HIPAA and then the fact that it was an incomplete report.
“Malnutrition,” she stated.
“Not that kind. Self-defense wounds, against or for.”
Barbara blinked, trying to think if the boy looked like he had been attacked. There were contusions, but all ones that would indicate-. She frowned, not able to reconcile the boy’s curled shoulders and seeming helplessness with the conclusions.
“Just, some contusions, they looked like,” again Barbara broke off, thinking of the savage look the boy had gotten when she’d been checking his ribs.
“Like he attacked someone and they fought back?” the detective’s tone indicated that it wasn’t a random guess.
Barbara gave a small nod. The detective shook his head.
“What kind of crime scene was he running away from?” she asked, curious.
“You’ll see it on the news,” he said, turning and walking away.
The detective was talking to the other policemen now and Barbara found herself trying to assimilate the strange events.
Outside, in the parking lot near a battered 90’s chevy pick up, Mr. Lebedev was searching his pockets for his keys; his son stood by. Mr. Strickler was quickly bearing down on them, long strides nearly as fast as a jog.
“Mr. Lebedev,” he hissed, green eyes flashing angrily.
The burly, black haired man turned from where he was unlocking his truck, face thunderous.
“Fuck off, monster,” the man spat.
Mr. Strickler glanced around quickly before seizing Mr. Lebedev’s shoulder and spinning him around with unnatural strength. He slammed the man against the truck and leaned in closely.
“You dare compromise our position!” Strickler spat, “You weak, arrogant, fleshbag!”
“Get your fucking hands off me,” Lebedev replied, though his pomp had waned slightly.
Jim stood to the side, watching the interaction with an impassive face.
“No, Mr. Lebedev, we pay you more than enough to keep your filthy mouth shut, and to gain your miserable cooperation.”
“My cooperation?! You took my son from me and replaced it with a freak like you! Nothing will ever compensate for that!!!”
At the word “freak” Jim shrank even more.
“The loss of your son will be the least of your worries if you don’t keep your end of the bargain. You’re very lucky that we even need you living, Mr. Lebedev.”
With that threat growled out, Mr. Strickler released the man. Mr. Lebedev let out a shaky breath, trying to regain composure.
Mr. Strickler turned to Jim, his manner completely changed. He drew something from his pocket.
“I retrieved this from that police officer’s person. It would do well to keep a better hold of it, young Atlas,” the reproach was soft.
Jim took the round piece of golden machinery which resembled a large pocket watch. He shoved it into his jeans. Mr. Strickler glanced over at Mr. Lebedev with a sour look before returning his attention to the boy.
“Jim,” he said, before changing over to the trollish language of the changelings, “ be more careful, Lady Morgana does not value her allies as she should. I can’t protect you. Not as I wish I could.”
He reached a hand out and set it softly on Jim’s shoulder.
“The doctor said you were injured,” he stated.
Jim shrugged, “just my ribs.”
“You’ll have to report to the Lady Morgana, today’s mission did not go as it should have.”
Jim looked up fearfully at Strickler.
“Don’t protest it, Jim, you know you need to."
With that the changeling turned, a last poisonous glare thrown at Mr. Lebedev, before he moved down the row of cars.
Detective Scott left the hospital in his own personal vehicle and began the drive from the hospital to 5th street. About two blocks from the main intersection of Sonoma and 5th, police cars were parked all along an alley entrance. Several uniformed men had cordoned the area off and were waving passerbys on.
He parked behind one of the service vehicles and climbed out feeling a bit too warm. It was late October and the normal heat of southern California had yet to cool.
Walking over he waved to Officer Louke and ducked around the makeshift stretch of police tape. In the alleyway a peculiar scene and morbid scene came into view.
The dumpster, used by the neighboring hole in the wall Mexican restaurant was overturned. A large hole had been punched through it from one side to the other, it was nearly three feet in diameter and whatever had done it had burned through the contents of the dumpster with what Scott could only guess was an intensely hot flame or explosion of some kind. Instead of half-burnt remains there were only ashes and the lingering scent of burnt trash.
The walls of the alley had long deep scratches, the weak plaster on one side showed where whatever had struck it had sunk nearly eight inches thick. The other wall, brick, had similar, but more shallow cuts. In the center of the alley blood was sprayed over the ground, a small pool spread out across almost an eight foot circle, the walls on either side were splattered and farther past the circle were multiple blood drops freckling the ground generously.
The three bodies, or what the coroner had guessed were the parts to three bodies, had already been removed.
Detective Scott took in a deep breath and frowned as the odd smell of ozone overtook his senses.
For some reason, fourteen year old James Lebedev Jr. was a part of whatever had happened here. Whatever events were unfolding, Scott had a feeling he wasn’t going to like them.