Post by Clayton on Jun 15, 2010 13:28:12 GMT
Clayton Roth had long since vowed never to turn a job down, regardless of what it was. He had made a vow to the people of the city when he had come to Los Angeles and joined the Force that he would do everything in his power to protect them, help them, do his part. It was his job to keep crises from escalating, from reaching fever pitch, and he did everything he possibly could to hold to that role as a negotiator; talk suspects down, ensure hostages were released, no matter what the cost. More than once over his eventful, dangerous career, Clay had even taken that step that so many instructors and old professionals advised you against going in, exchanging himself for one or more hostages, going into the belly of the beast so to speak in order to better negotiate and get an idea of who and what he was dealing with. After so long in the field, with his wealth of experience and his ability to keep his cool on the job even with his own fears and phobias, hidden as they were from his colleagues and superiors, Clay liked to think he was good at his job. Damned good, even. Before taking the title of a negotiator, he had been a detective in Anti-Crime, and before that he had given time, sweat and blood, to the Force on the streets, worn the uniform with pride and gone through the motions day after day giving everything he had to give.
Even with all those promises, all that experience and all his determination, there was one thing Clay couldn't deny, not to himself or the person to whom he was closest in the world. Try as he might, time and time again, to fight against it, he couldn't just shut it down.
Clay hated jumpers. Hated them.
It wasn't the people themselves that he hated; he had nothing against them, and understood very well just what might push a person to climb out onto a ledge or up onto a roof the likes of which he stood on now, all that emotion and desperation, the feeling of grief and defeat that could push a man or woman to the edge. Literally. Clay had been through enough in his life to know just how it felt, looking into that wide, yawning maw, and feel like giving in and taking that final step. All those years ago when he'd been closed off from the world, knowing nothing but pain and loneliness and fear, he had felt that temptation. But he had never taken it, never let go. It was his job, here and now, to give this man that same flicker of hope, hold out his hand and take the human's and help him down from the edge of the roof. It was Clay's job to save this man's life, keep the mortal from taking it because he felt like there was nothing left for him in the world, no other choice, no options.
So it was that he pushed down and locked away all his own feelings about the situation, the scenario in general, and kept his movements calm and steady as he approached the edge of the roof, his voice run through audibly with patience, understanding and compassion as he spoke to the man standing, staring down at the street below, "Listen to me, Craig. Just take a second, and listen to me. Okay? Can you do that?"
The man turned his head just enough to take his brown eyes off the street laid out below them, all the people standing and staring up with the emergency services sitting in wait, giving the negotiator a chance to do his job. His eyes were reddened, his face streaked with tears that had yet to dry. "There's nothing to say," he croaked out, voice rough and shaking.
"Sure there is," Clay returned, keeping himself in sight, coming in from an angle and never approaching more than the man allowed. The first wrong movement, any sign of the control being torn out of his hands, and Craig would take that step. "Your sister's here, Craig. She told me about Helen." Seeing the wince cross the man's face, Clay went on quickly, "Why don't you tell me what happened, Craig? Tell me what's going on and we'll see what we can do about it, huh?" That man-to-man approach didn't work for every person in this situation. Some of them just wanted to be left alone, didn't want to talk, and Clay had yet to assess just which category Craig fell into.
"There's nothing to say," he said again, choked and thin. "She left me. She's gone and she's never coming back."
There were plenty of clichés for Clay to choose from in this situation, lines that seemed so corny and overused but actually worked, and it was a timeless classic that he chose now, "You'll find someone else, Craig. Trust me. You've got so much to live for."
"Trust you?" Craig looked back at him. "I don't even know you, man." He lifted one hand and swiped at his damp face, frustrated. "What do you know about it? You didn't know Helen, you didn't know how great she was." His voice was rising in volume, that desperation and grief sharp in every word, intensifying.
Dammit.
"Why don't you come down here and tell me about her?" He kept it optional, made it an offer rather than a command, but something inside of Clay's gut had already gone cold, forming into a tight, tense ball. Instinct. Experience. Whatever it was, Clay knew what was going to happen next before it even came to pass.
"I don't want to talk," Craig pushed out hotly, fresh tears streaking down. "I'm done talking." His eyes closed and his posture shifted just a fraction. It was enough.
Clay moved with all the agility and speed he could put into play without it seeming unnatural, darting towards the ledge and more importantly the man now pitching forward off it, one hand finding the lip as his other reached quickly for Craig, any part of him that was in reach. Feeling a brush, he tried to close his hand, find a grip, the wolf inside giving a snarl and a predatory shift, adrenaline firing through his veins like an electric charge even as a denial burned on his tongue, that icy ball in his gut tightening and growing suddenly larger when he felt his hand close around nothing but air.
Several voices from below cried out in shock and disbelief as one came from behind and back on the roof, a feminine scream of terror even as gravel shifted under swiftly moving feet. Clay remained where he was, body half-thrown over the raised ledge, arm dropped down, empty and free of the burden of another man's weight. His eyes closed as the frustration of the wolf flashed over the blue, screams echoing up from below, telling the lycanthrope one thing: the fire department hadn't had enough time to set up the air cushion. There had been nothing but empty air between Craig and the hard concrete below.
There was a uniformed officer pulling Craig's sister back from the ledge, her frantic cries and sobs searing down Clay's ear, and it was to the man that the werewolf spoke, trying not to sound gruff when he said, "Get her out of here." One look from the negotiator as he pulled himself back onto even ground and straightened and the man didn't argue, simply got the woman back from the ledge and through the door leading down from the roof, giving Clay several long seconds alone in which he counted off the time it would take for them to descend out of earshot before he snapped out a curse. "Goddammit."
Even with all those promises, all that experience and all his determination, there was one thing Clay couldn't deny, not to himself or the person to whom he was closest in the world. Try as he might, time and time again, to fight against it, he couldn't just shut it down.
Clay hated jumpers. Hated them.
It wasn't the people themselves that he hated; he had nothing against them, and understood very well just what might push a person to climb out onto a ledge or up onto a roof the likes of which he stood on now, all that emotion and desperation, the feeling of grief and defeat that could push a man or woman to the edge. Literally. Clay had been through enough in his life to know just how it felt, looking into that wide, yawning maw, and feel like giving in and taking that final step. All those years ago when he'd been closed off from the world, knowing nothing but pain and loneliness and fear, he had felt that temptation. But he had never taken it, never let go. It was his job, here and now, to give this man that same flicker of hope, hold out his hand and take the human's and help him down from the edge of the roof. It was Clay's job to save this man's life, keep the mortal from taking it because he felt like there was nothing left for him in the world, no other choice, no options.
So it was that he pushed down and locked away all his own feelings about the situation, the scenario in general, and kept his movements calm and steady as he approached the edge of the roof, his voice run through audibly with patience, understanding and compassion as he spoke to the man standing, staring down at the street below, "Listen to me, Craig. Just take a second, and listen to me. Okay? Can you do that?"
The man turned his head just enough to take his brown eyes off the street laid out below them, all the people standing and staring up with the emergency services sitting in wait, giving the negotiator a chance to do his job. His eyes were reddened, his face streaked with tears that had yet to dry. "There's nothing to say," he croaked out, voice rough and shaking.
"Sure there is," Clay returned, keeping himself in sight, coming in from an angle and never approaching more than the man allowed. The first wrong movement, any sign of the control being torn out of his hands, and Craig would take that step. "Your sister's here, Craig. She told me about Helen." Seeing the wince cross the man's face, Clay went on quickly, "Why don't you tell me what happened, Craig? Tell me what's going on and we'll see what we can do about it, huh?" That man-to-man approach didn't work for every person in this situation. Some of them just wanted to be left alone, didn't want to talk, and Clay had yet to assess just which category Craig fell into.
"There's nothing to say," he said again, choked and thin. "She left me. She's gone and she's never coming back."
There were plenty of clichés for Clay to choose from in this situation, lines that seemed so corny and overused but actually worked, and it was a timeless classic that he chose now, "You'll find someone else, Craig. Trust me. You've got so much to live for."
"Trust you?" Craig looked back at him. "I don't even know you, man." He lifted one hand and swiped at his damp face, frustrated. "What do you know about it? You didn't know Helen, you didn't know how great she was." His voice was rising in volume, that desperation and grief sharp in every word, intensifying.
Dammit.
"Why don't you come down here and tell me about her?" He kept it optional, made it an offer rather than a command, but something inside of Clay's gut had already gone cold, forming into a tight, tense ball. Instinct. Experience. Whatever it was, Clay knew what was going to happen next before it even came to pass.
"I don't want to talk," Craig pushed out hotly, fresh tears streaking down. "I'm done talking." His eyes closed and his posture shifted just a fraction. It was enough.
Clay moved with all the agility and speed he could put into play without it seeming unnatural, darting towards the ledge and more importantly the man now pitching forward off it, one hand finding the lip as his other reached quickly for Craig, any part of him that was in reach. Feeling a brush, he tried to close his hand, find a grip, the wolf inside giving a snarl and a predatory shift, adrenaline firing through his veins like an electric charge even as a denial burned on his tongue, that icy ball in his gut tightening and growing suddenly larger when he felt his hand close around nothing but air.
Several voices from below cried out in shock and disbelief as one came from behind and back on the roof, a feminine scream of terror even as gravel shifted under swiftly moving feet. Clay remained where he was, body half-thrown over the raised ledge, arm dropped down, empty and free of the burden of another man's weight. His eyes closed as the frustration of the wolf flashed over the blue, screams echoing up from below, telling the lycanthrope one thing: the fire department hadn't had enough time to set up the air cushion. There had been nothing but empty air between Craig and the hard concrete below.
There was a uniformed officer pulling Craig's sister back from the ledge, her frantic cries and sobs searing down Clay's ear, and it was to the man that the werewolf spoke, trying not to sound gruff when he said, "Get her out of here." One look from the negotiator as he pulled himself back onto even ground and straightened and the man didn't argue, simply got the woman back from the ledge and through the door leading down from the roof, giving Clay several long seconds alone in which he counted off the time it would take for them to descend out of earshot before he snapped out a curse. "Goddammit."