Nickerbits
I really don't know what else I can do for the man. I've done my best, I've tried my hardest, but it just seems sometimes that I can't do anything right.
I know that my place is at his side, providing back up and support when needed, but somehow I just never seem to be there when the chips are down. I can't even tell you how many times the man has been counting on me to help him out of a dangerous situation, only to discover that I couldn't provide the assistance he needed -- again.
As a Sentinel, Detective James Ellison carries a very heavy burden. His duty is to protect the tribe at all costs, and to do that effectively, he must be able to rely on those around him. I'm not entirely stupid -- I know that my performance has definitely been less than stellar.
Don't think that the rest of the department has missed my lapses either. Even I can hear some of the snickers and whispered commentary that follows in our wake after yet another screw-up. A lot of the whisperers blame Jim for my failures, but I know where the fault really lies.
With his military background and training, he believes that the ultimate blame for the failure of a mission rests squarely on the shoulders of it's commanding officer -- in this case, him. I know better, though. I recognize my own shortcomings and have finally faced up to my culpability and the fact that I must take steps to correct the situation.
My Sentinel is much too loyal to ever abandon a companion, but that just means that it's up to me to ensure that James Ellison is free to find the partner he deserves.
As much as it will kill me, it's time for this little Sig-Sauer 9mm to step aside so that Jim can finally find himself a gun that will do its job and remain in his hand, ready to fire when needed. I've tried -- lord knows, I've tried. I don't know if it's my weight, my balance or just that he finds my grip too slippery, but somehow, whenever he calls on me in times of danger, I find myself out of his hands and sliding across the floor, leaving him to face the peril alone again. One day, my faults are going to get him killed.
I can't allow that to happen. The next time that I find myself leaving him in the lurch, I will somehow make sure that I just keep up my ignominious retreat across the floor until I can find a convenient vat of sludge, salt water or other corrosive material to drop myself into.
I know that my loss will hurt him at first, but he'll soon realize things are better this way. He'll be free to find a gun that can stay gripped firmly in his hand, ready to provide him the support he needs. Maybe a Walther, or a Colt, or even, dare I say it, a Glock. He'll be safe, and hopefully, I'll be corroding silently away somewhere.
Oh, wait! I hear gunshots! I feel his fingers closing around my grip, and of course, I feel myself squirting out of his hand before I can help! I didn't think it would be so hard to do this, but yes! There's the edge of a wharf, and the bottomless, blue ocean beneath. Good-bye, Jim! I really did love you in my own way, and I'm sorry I couldn't be what you needed.
Fin