Title: Salvageable (Alternate Version)

Author: Elliott Silver (elliottsilver@hotmail.com)

Summary: Where does salvation lie?

Nature tended towards extravagance more often than not.

Tornadoes that demolished farmland, hurricanes that swept away the seacoast, droughts that capsized, earthquakes that twisted the world inside out.

Devastation, pure and simple.

And cruelly random.

Outside, a storm.

Attacking with all the finesse of a lynch mob. Impetuous. Extravagant.

Inside, the warehouse filtered with chill air. The tenuous sidings lashed but holding the onslaught.

For now.

Napoleon and the March of the Fishwives.

Surrounded by indiscriminate empty space and echoes, he didn’t hear it at first.

More insistent, separate yet indistinct from the storm.

He unfolded, unwillingly let the cold assault him.

Glimmer, of the black gunmetal.

Shadow, of his single halogen desk-lamp.

And darkness, harsh.

His muscles stiff, unyielding. Unwarmed.

Suspicion, chiseled chasm-deep as he unlocked the frame door and the storm snatched it wide open.

She stood alone.

Turned to him half a circle from the fluttering street light she’d been facing.

The same, and not.

Dark tempest hair rain-slicked. Arms wrapped around herself, submerged in the thin wet sweater.

Eyes, eyes level.

A moment, maybe less, maybe more.

"I left."

Her voice stolen by the storm, conveyed only through the ozone and damn sparking electricity.

His grip loosened on the weapon, let it slide into his palm.

"Can I come in?"

Wasn’t asking, more than asking. Do you want this, me? Is this all right? I have no where else, and no one to go to.

Or turn me away now.

Let me go.

Or make me stay.

"Yes." His voice too caught and spun by the storm.

No movement, stillness like an atomic bomb.

He moved, unaware he was doing so. Stepped into the storm, let the rain decimate him as it had her. Gathered her into his warmth and led her inside.

Shut the door.

And met each other more than halfway.

Let us find shelter from this storm.

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Disclaimer: The characters of "The Pretender" are not mine; they rightfully belong to NBC, MTM, and Pretender Productions, as well as the actors and actresses who give paper and ink a life and a voice. I am making no profit from these writings; imitation is the highest form of flattery.