The National Library - West Wing Fan Fiction

Refiner's Fire

Category(s): Post-Ep
Rating: TEEN
Disclaimer: This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...
Summary: A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.
Authors Notes: This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.
Warning:I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.

PART 3

*****

~ TIME INDEX: 00:01:37 ~

By the time Leo McGarry was finally allowed to rise, the worst of the crisis had passed. The shooting had ceased. The panic had been reined in. Now all that remained was to clean up the mess, and tally up the cost.

*That's all.* Right, nothing to it.

// Without warning he was forcibly shoved to the ground, and a firm hand planted itself on his back, keeping him low and comparatively safe as death rained down on all sides... //

The White House Chief of Staff accepted an extended hand and struggled upright. The agent assigned to him had done his job right, and probably saved Leo's life to boot - and in the process rendered him utterly unable to help his people, his friends, his President.

Leo was not the type who wanted protection for himself. His every instinct was to protect others.

Past memories, many best forgotten, resurrected themselves and surged forward with a vengeance. The thrill of battle. Valor, loss, outrage. Demanding retaliation.

But his fighting days - at least in the physical sense - had ended long ago. Forcing him to stay back and leave the counterattack to others.

Now that the damage had been done, beyond all mortal power to reverse it, at last he could find answers to the relentless bombardment of questions that assailed him without respite.

Who'd been hurt?

Had anyone been *killed?*

He shifted his full weight onto his left leg for the first time - and the white-hot teeth that chomped down in protest came as a sharp surprise.

The agent turned back fast as a hiss of pain was wrenched from the man he'd been supposed to defend. "Are you all right, Mr. McGarry?"

With a massive effort, Leo clamped a stiff visual mask into place. He could hardly believe that even a hail of bullets had been a sufficient distraction from such fire for so long. But he could tell that it wasn't serious, and no doubt many others right around him required aid far more than he did right now. He rested a steadying hand on the hood of a convenient squad car - one hand only - and silently vowed not to draw medical resources away from the *real* injuries.

Besides, he had responsibilities. Employees to locate. Friends to care for.

"I'm fine. Must've banged something on the way down. You don't know your own strength, Trent."

"You're sure, sir?"

"Yeah." First things first. "The President?"

The agent hesitated... and Leo felt his heart constrict.

"He's being seen to," Trent said with careful restraint.

Leo jerked around - and confirmed his worst fears. Both executive limousines still idled a short distance away.

Regardless of whether he'd actually been injured or not, Jed Bartlet should have been whisked from here without the slightest delay. For him to remain anywhere *near* a veritable combat zone flew straight in the face of every conceivable security regulation.

There were only two possible reasons why at least *one* limo was not currently speeding towards the safety of the White House... or the care of the nearest hospital. Either it physically couldn't - and these luxurious tanks were armored against anything smaller than a bazooka round - or else the President hadn't yet gained its sanctuary.

What news did the Secret Service possess with their covert radio communications that everyone else *didn't?*

"Is he *inside?*" Leo demanded, hearing the strain in those three words.

"Yes, sir; the doors to Mach One are secure."

<Breathe.> At least Bartlet would be safe from *further* danger... but then, any harm already inflicted was not getting the treatment it needed while his transportation sat here.

Leo took a single step forward. Wanting nothing so much as to charge over to the first limo in line, yank its door open, and demand to know his oldest and dearest friend's condition. The fact that the Secret Service would never tolerate such a move did not lessen its compulsion. Trent had to place a discouraging hand on his arm.

Then the reason for that limo's persistent motionlessness snapped into focus: it would have to swing sharply out of its established parade position and pass the other now-unnecessary vehicles in the parked motorcade. And at least two people lay right in its path.

Not even for a critically-injured President could the limo chauffeur be expected to drive right over the bodies of other victims. <And a good thing, too.> Still, their Commander-in-Chief must be evacuated *now.*

Leo forced himself not to look directly at those two casualties. Not yet. His duty to the President *had* to come first. "Get the paramedics over here. Use your own people if you have to, but clear the road! And don't aggravate their injuries!"

"We're already on it, sir."

"And I'm sure they could use some more help. Go!"

Trent frowned; that would hardly agree with his usual instructions. "Sir, I have to get *you* out of here first." The second-highest-ranking individual in the White House was a little too valuable to stick around Armageddon either.

Leo seared him with a furious glare. "*We* have to get the *President* out of here. Now get going!"

Only in extreme circumstances did these agents leave their protectees. Well, few would debate that this event qualified. There was too much to do and too few hands to do it. Attention had to be focused on those people who truly needed it. Besides, the actual danger was obviously past. Trent gave no more objection to his new marching orders.

Deliberately, Leo turned his back on that limo and everything it represented. Striving to put his mental torment for his old friend on hold, at least for now. He had no choice at all but to entrust the President to others' more capable hands. Just like the war.

He looked around, feeling admittedly useless. No one needed him for the clean-up, either; both the Secret Service and the ambulance crews knew their jobs.

Still, the more organized the overall operation, the faster the wounded would be prioritized and treated. In that small way he could contribute. Leo moved among the numerous pockets of activity dotting this surprisingly well-lit area as they concentrated now on first aid rather than defense. He himself wasn't up to physical labor at this time; it took all his self-control not to wince with each halting stride. But he brought an overall perspective and a quiet authority that many found calming and quickly looked to for added direction.

How odd, to be able to provide such comfort when he so deeply lacked it himself...

<Concentrate. Get through it. Do what needs doing.> It was the only way he could preserve any mental equilibrium.

The number of minor injuries was daunting. People had been knocked down, trampled and slammed into various objects in their mad escape. Several had even jumped the barriers to find running room, which disingenuously carried them straight into the line of fire. But, whether due to the poor aim of the assailants, the unreliability of handgun accuracy, or God above, the quantity of bullet wounds were thankfully few. Still, with all those shots popping off at a thick crowd from an elevated vantage point, *someone* had to get hit.

So many lives would never be the same again...

Ambulances continued to pour in, no doubt sent from every hospital in the district. Leo pointed two emergency personnel towards still-waiting patients, reinforced police intention to keep the ever-growing gaggle of reporters and photographers well back, rejected a plea for a news statement, spoke to some of the less harried agents for the details behind this disaster and the steps still being taken. Sooner or later, an official release would be required.

And all the while, he tried to find those for whom he was personally responsible. Tortured by visions of what he might find...

The first such person he recognized was not a co-worker and subordinate, but a young girl he had watched grow up - and very possibly the indirect cause of this entire episode. A person whose involvement he had completely forgotten.

"Zoey?"

Hovering as close to Charlie as she could get, Zoey jerked around violently at the sound of her name. Tear-tracks glimmered down her face in the multi-source lighting. Two medics were present, working with careful deliberation on her still-unconscious boyfriend, and she could not possibly help in any concrete manner, yet she held his hand as though both their lives depended upon that physical link. Judging by the black-suited Secret Service agent standing nervously right behind, not even physical force could tear her away.

Perhaps a *very* old and trusted family friend would have more success. The First Daughter should've been extricated from this scene long ago - just like her father.

At the sight of her honorary uncle, Zoey's trembling eased a bit. Then slowly and gently she set down Charlie's limp hand, scrambled up, and went straight into Leo's arms.

Now here was responsibility indeed. <If anything happened to her, Jed and Abbey would never forgive me!>

"Are you okay, honey?"

Zoey blinked at her tears, and somehow found words. "I-I think so. But Charlie - "

Leo looked down at the President's personal aide, laid out face-up on pavement before them all... far too much like a lying-in-state. His eyes had always flashed brilliantly against that mocha skin; when they were closed, his face looked ominously dark. *Lightless.*

However, you don't apply first aid to a corpse. One positive note - of very few all round tonight.

"Easy; they're doing everything that can be done."

"I know," Zoey whimpered, pressing her face against his shoulder. "But they were aiming right at him... and Gina had to leave... "

That simple addendum set off alarm bells, loud and clear. If it were at all humanly possible, Gina would be nowhere else but right here. And if it weren't...

Filled with dread, Leo cast an interrogative eye at the SSA looming protectively nearby.

Who just somberly shook his head. Sending a horrid chill of confirmation down the Chief of Staff's spine. He closed his eyes against the sudden well of grief.

And determinedly, he regulated that grief to the back burner. They'd just have to deal with it later - preferably out of Zoey's earshot. The needs of the living must take precedence.

"Well?" he asked the attendants.

"Bullet grazed his neck," one replied shortly without looking up from her task. "Maybe nicked the spine, maybe not. Can't tell yet."

Leo flinched, and he felt Zoey shudder as well.

Then she raised her head to look him in the eye. "My dad - have you heard -?"

He'd have done almost anything in his power right then to erase that fear completely. This teenage girl was being bombarded mercilessly tonight.

But there are times when it's even more cruel to lie.

"He's in one of the limos." Leo had to pause, wrestling with his own apprehensions. "For the moment... he's safe."

Zoey couldn't help but read into that pause. A sob escaped her.

All at once Leo was hit by a wave of cold anger at the pragmatic regulations - and the violence responsible for those regulations - which prevented this frightened child's father from being present when they so needed each other. What kind of world won't allow its single most powerful citizen to console his own daughter?

Well, then, her father's best friend would do his best to stand in, to hold her close and provide whatever solace could be found in the nightmare her life had become.

*****

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

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