SmackDown: Back to Our Roots

Round 2: All One Thing - @CJG1988

All One Thing

by CJG1988

*Click*

"Blast! Not now, you infernal thing!" the gunman cursed loudly at his failed weapon.

As luck would have it, that cap was a dud.

Abraham Lincoln spun in his chair, looking over his shoulder, lifting his brow. He was met by a fierce and chilling gaze. The cold eyes of a man who had put everything on the line for this one moment in time starred back at him. He recognised the assailant instantly. Everyone knew John Wilkes Booth, he was a well-known actor within his own right, and Lincoln had even watched Booth perform in The Marble Heart, not two years prior. But, Booth was also well-known for his political leanings of late.


The derringer's tiny barrel remained cold, the air free of smoke, and Lincoln's eyes were now trained on the weapon that jostled in Booth's nervous, trembling hand.


Mary and Clara both shrieked at the sight of the would-be assassin's weapon, each scrambling to flee from the presidential box. As they ran, Booth dropped the derringer and drew his blade. He slashed at them wildly, cutting Clara's right forearm deeply. She wailed in pain, dropping to the floor as Booth's arm and blade returned in front of him. But, Rathbone had already exploded from his seat and charged towards Booth with anger spewing from him. Fuelled by the rage of his partner's injury, Rathbone clasped Booth's knife wrist tightly and pulled him forward, Rathbone then delivered a blow to Booth's gut with all his might. Booth lurched forward, dropping his knife whilst coughing and wheezing uncontrollably. Rathbone raised his fist up high and came down at Booth's face with an almighty crack. Booth dropped to his knees, spitting blood from his mouth, along with two teeth, abruptly set free from their housings.


Lincoln meanwhile, had rushed to Clara's aid. He drew his handkerchief from his breast-pocket and pressed it firmly against the blood pouring from her wound, as Mary began to tear portions from her own dress. Lincoln returned his gaze to the battle between his friend and would be assassin. Rathbone had been striking Booth repeatedly in his rage and finally, lifted him to his feet and dragged him toward the sill of the box.

"Henry No!" Lincoln howled.


"He tried to kill you! And my poor Clara..." Rathbone snarled as he continued to force Booth against the railing.


Leaving Clara in his wife's hands, Lincoln approached Rathbone. Booth, still conscious, flailed haphazardly in an attempt to thwart Rathbone's plan.


"You'll only make a martyr of him, Henry. The war is already over, we won," said Lincoln as he edged closer toward the bloodied pair.

"No Abe, you're wrong," spat Rathbone. "He's just the first of many, more will come. You must understand this!"


Lincoln pondered his friend's words carefully, something about them just resonated with him. His thoughts turned instantly to the remaining fragments of strange dreams he'd had of late. The light seemed to disappear from his eyes for the briefest of moments as he reached his conclusion.


"Major Rathbone," Lincoln bellowed with the full depth of his vocal range. He and Rathbone locked eyes. "Execute this man for treason, immediately!"


Rathbone regained his breath and nodded. "Yes, Mr President." He then kicked sharply at Booth's right leg, dropping him to his knees. Rathbone drew his Moore's revolver and cocked the hammer.


"No," declared Lincoln just as Rathbone had pressed the barrel against the side of Booth's head. Rathbone's face contorted instantly as if having been betrayed. Lincoln extended his hand in a request for the weapon. Rathbone nodded to his President and complied instantly.


Lincoln took the revolver and aimed it between Booth's eyes.


Booth spat blood from his mouth, marring Lincoln's suit and shoes. Booth then looked up at the tall man before him whilst still coughing and spluttering. He struggled to maintain eye contact through his bleeding and swelling. He drew a long rasping breath as he prepared to make himself heard.


"Sic. Semper. Ty-"


But before Booth could finish his curse, Lincoln fired a single .32 calibre round into Booth's forehead, dropping him to the floor instantly.


"The future of our great nation doesn't need your kind," Lincoln uttered as he lowered the weapon to his side.


Lincoln then noticed the eerie silence that had befallen the theatre. The players had frozen in place and the audience was a mixed bag of emotions. The majority were terrified, whereas some appeared to be unsure if the show was still going or not.


***


Weeks later, in the safe-house of an undisclosed location, Lincoln struggled to find closure as he retired for the evening. He bore no guilt nor shame in ending a man's life that fateful night, but it was his friend's words that he dwelt upon. He felt he was going mad from months of peculiar dreams, visions and fragments of a world unlike his own would plague his mind some evenings. So much to the point that he began to see these dreams as prophetic. Clara had survived, her bleeding was minimal and luckily the first doctor, a young Army Surgeon named Charles Leale, had arrived on scene quickly. Rathbone was hailed as a hero, promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel for his bravery and named the Patriot by the masses. John Frederick Parker, the Police Officer assigned to guard Lincoln, had disappeared that night without a trace. His name was placed at the top of the wanted list as one of Booth's co-conspirators and a man-hunt was already well underway.


Lincoln was alone, save for the four Police Officers turned Secret Service agents who were on-guard downstairs. Mar, had wished to keep Clara company until she recovered fully and they were sent to stay at the White House. Lincoln stood in his current bedroom, peering out the window as dark clouds began to gather. Lightning struck in the distance as Lincoln looked up to see his resident spider still safely in her web in the corner of the room.


"Better you than the mosquitoes, right Eleanor?" he chucked. Lincoln sighed heavily as he walked over to his bed rubbing his eyes, heavy with fatigue. He turned in for the night, extinguishing his bedside lantern.


As Lincoln slept, one of his bodyguards, Agent Archibald Brown was outside patrolling the perimeter. Brown had just rounded one of the ancient oak trees that littered the surrounds, when he noticed a cloaked figure approaching the two storey cabin, their presence was masked by the sound of heavy rain striking the ground like a herd of buffalo in a stampede. Brown panicked, instantly returning to the concealment of the tree. Then he drew a deep breath as he held his revolver and peered around the trunk. The moon was nearly full and the night was well lit from sporadic lightning strikes. The cloak opened partially in the wind to reveal a man as its wearer. The man halted at the cabin's side and produced from his pocket a small device that appeared to be a firearm. He raised his arm and with a puff of smoke, a rope and small harpoon of sorts, were sent careening skyward.


"Halt!" bellowed Brown to overcome the sound of rainfall. "Who goes there?" he called out as he approached the man. The man raised both arms up high and turned around slowly, his face still hidden under his hood. "Drop your weapon, now!"


The man released the device from his hand and it dropped to the ground with the rope still dangling from the cabin roof. He then slowly removed his hood just as a distant lightning strike illuminated the surrounding area.


"Parker? John Parker?" Brown uttered in disbelief. "Where have you been and what are you doing here?"


Foolishly, Brown lowered his revolver slightly, and Parker took his chance. Parker's cloak flung open as he darted to his left, raising a hidden weapon with a long thin barrel. Three muzzle flashes flickered in rapid succession, accompanied by the faintest of sounds as Brown was struck. He collapsed, dying immediately from his wounds.


"Sorry, Archie," Parker mumbled as if being forced to apologise by a parent.


Parker then turned back around, claiming his dropped device and after attaching the strange apparatus to his chest, the cable then became tight, and he was lifted from the ground slowly. Parker scaled the wall effortlessly and climbed up onto the roof. He crept along until he found the window he sought. With an almost cat-like inclination, he climbed down to Lincoln's bedroom and opened the window gently.


Wind and rain came rushing through the open window as Parker slowly slunk inside. He closed the window behind him gently, then stood perfectly still for a moment to check if his presence had been noticed. He watched the gap beneath the bedroom door, but no candlelight was to be seen. Confident, he proceeded towards Lincoln who remained fast asleep.


"You're late," came a soft voice from the dark corner.


"Fuck, Miller! You scared the shit out of me dude," snapped Parker. "I ran into a snag outside."


"That idiot, he was supposed to be back inside twenty minutes ago. No matter, best get on with it." Advised Miller.


"Right," nodded Parker as he approached Lincoln's bed. He removed a small item from his breast-pocket. It was round, and metallic, like some odd looking brooch. Parker reached down and placed the device upon Lincoln's brow. Parker then tapped with his fingertips at his left foreman, upon doing so, a purple light began to emanate from the device attached to Lincoln.

Though still asleep, Lincoln's eyes flickered as though he were possessed by demons. Miller gentle pried open an eyelid with his thumb. The pupil was heavily dilated and the rapid eye movement continued. He nodded to Parker who poked again at the bizarre panel affixed to his left arm, causing the purple light to increase in intensity.


"How much longer?" asked Miller. "Next rotation is only minutes away."

"He's almost there, that night with Booth really set the stage, so to speak," chuckled Parker.



"You're just lucky he didn't get to slit his throat, just swapping out the percussion caps alone was careless."


"Perhaps, but I have more than enough juice for a do-over, just in case," Parker winked. "It won't come to that now anyway." As Parker finished speaking, the purple light switched off and he reclaimed the device.


"Agreed, and now your mission is complete. See you on the other side," nodded Miller as Parker opened the window and put a leg up.


"Give 'em hell, those racist fucks." With that, Parker climbed outside and Miller ran over with his revolver drawn.


"To a better world," remarked Agent Miller, as he fired a few rounds at the ground all around Agent Brown's body where it lay, waking Lincoln from his slumber.


Lincoln sat up instantly from the commotion, just as the other two agents came rushing in carrying lanterns with their revolvers at the ready.


"Sir, what happened?" Agent Morgan asked of Miller, still half out the window.


"Brown's been killed!" he yelled in a panic. "I saw a man shoot him and flee. Get outside and search for them now!" ordered Miller.


"Yes, Sir!" replied both Agents Morgan and Williams in unison, before charging off.


"Mr President are you alright?" asked Miller as Lincoln sat in his bed rubbing forehead.


"My heart still pounds as if it were attempting its grand escape," Lincoln answered as he clutched at his chest. "What happened Miller?"


"Another would be assassin, Sir. Looks like he got the jump on Brown outside, I fired at him from here, but he took off into the night."


"Those cowards!" Lincoln spat. He turned to his side to strike a match, and light his lantern. Then, for a few seconds it appeared as though he had lost consciousness, he drew breath and his eyes remained open. But an eerily blank expression was all that Miller could see.


"There's no time to waste!" Lincoln announced as he suddenly shot up and hurried over to the desk as he mumbled inaudibly to himself. He set his lantern down, laid out a fresh piece of paper and uncapped his fountain pen. Lincoln then began to scribble down all he could remember from his most recent of dreams. He continued to etch his visions uninterrupted for a few minutes, as the Secret Service agent looked on with an accomplished smirk.


Agent Miller stepped forward, "Mr President, are you feeling yourself?"


The pen halted, "Yes, Miller. Very much so," he replied grinning, with his head still down.


"Sir, I'm going to check downstairs. Stay here until I return," advised Agent Miller.


"Very well," nodded Lincoln, returning his attention to his writing. "How long until dawn?"


"Another three hours, I'd say, Sir," replied Agent Miller.


"Saddle the horses, we shall leave at first light."


"Leave? To where shall we ride, Sir?" Miller asked in shock.


"Washington," Lincoln answered as he rose from his desk chair. "I now know what must be done to end this war."


Miller hesitated, "But Sir, the war has already ended."


Lincoln's gaze was piercing. "Agent Miller, there are still men, women and children all suffering under the monstrous injustice of slavery within our great nation." A prideful smile crept along Miller's face as Lincoln continued. "For too long, I have toed the line of political puppetry. But, no more. Each day, I receive countless letters of great insult and threat to my own person and family. Something must be done. No Agent Miller, the war is far from over. If even one Confederate flag still flies than justice has not yet been served. This, our great nation under God, cannot endure with so many enemies lurking within the shadows. I will see to it, that all slaves are freed. And that all slave owners, are exterminated..."