"Alien life has never been my forte—but I will admit Captain Kirk has always been a huge inspiration of mine. Green women do it better, wouldn’t you say?”
Carlie had the first-aid kit tucked into her arm and her phone out when she heard the men outside her door. She froze, her hand hovering over the ‘9’ on her touchscreen; it seemed like the ambulance would have to wait. She thought of the man in her living room, and grabbed the shotgun she kept near her bedroom door before rushing back to face him.
"Who … are those people after you?"
"Something…far worse than the faux sirens make them out to be." He was of course referring to the sounds that harkened their arrival just moments earlier—Jean-Phillipe stumbled to her couch, planting himself there with a gasp. He would need to operate soon.
"They are ‘people’ in the loosest sense of the term," he said, shrugging off his jacket and lifting his shirt. He grimaced at the wound, holding his hand out to Carlie for her to give him the kit. "Sent to track down and terminate those who proceeded them by a benevolent, tyrannical dictator—I need warm water and something to mop up this blood. Shoo shoo, I haven’t got all night."
Stupid, Cooper, of course he’s bleeding. She ran to the door and clicked it shut, forgetting entirely about the gun he had aimed at her — there were more pressing matters at hand. She was no paramedic, but she’d do all she could to help a citizen in need, however … questionable they may seem.
"I think you need to lie down. Flat on your back. I have a first-aid kit in my bathroom with bandages. I’m calling an ambulance."
"Very astute deduction, Mr. Holmes—gah!"
Jean-Phillipe braced himself, clenching tighter on the wound to try and suppress the blood flow from the wound. He kept the gun level at her chest, urging her to keep her distance—voices of angered men soon filled the hallway outside Carlie’s door. Jean-Phillipe raised the hand that held the gun upwards, sticking the trigger finger upwards to place it perpendicularly over his lips. Quiet time just began.
She couldn’t trust the man, but she didn’t want her brains blown out either. Whatever this was, she knew a good cop like her shouldn’t get involved in it — but was she willing to risk her life for this?
Slowly, she edged the door open, her arm ready to swing if she had to. Please don’t let this be the death of me.
"You’re too kind." His footsteps were heavy, burdened with the pain he was feeling. He walked through her door, the gun gripped firmly in his hand and pointed directly at her heart. His other hand held his ribs—the wound he had suffered when evading police now blazingly apparent.
"Close the door, will you? I feel a draft." The sound of police sirens could be heard in the distance, drawing closer with each passing second. Jean-Phillipe grunted, sliding himself along her wall to keep himself on his feet.
The sudden movement drew attention to the barrel of the gun poking around the door, and Carlie reached for a gun that wasn’t there. She cursed under her breath, reaching for the nearest object that she could hit someone with — her roller skates. “How do I know you’re not just going to shoot me if I open the door?”
"You don’t—but the chances of you being shot will be drastically decreased if you just let me in.” He set his free hand on the door, readying himself to shove the door open if she refuses again. He didn’t have time for this.
"All I am asking for is a smidgen of sanctuary. You supply the roof, I don’t supply the bullet—everyone’s happy."