Peacekeepers: Remnant Shadows
Part Three
by Alicia McKenzie
Zara Logan sat bolt upright in her bed with a gasp, clutching at her throat. #Nick?# she thought, instinctively reaching out along the link she shared with her twin before she remembered he was a few thousand miles away in Madripoor, with Dad. Out of her range, for sure--thankfully. Embarrassment flooded in to replace the terror of the swiftly fleeing nightmare, and Zara groaned, falling backwards against the best.
Cute. Really cute. Good thing Nick hadn't been here. He would never have said a word to her about waking him up in the middle of the night, of course, but if she had, she wouldn't have been able to look at herself in the mirror in the morning. She had her pride, after all--although it had been one hell of a nightmare. Zara flung her arm over her face with a muttered curse. Where the fuck had that come from? She hated the nightmares where you couldn't breathe. This one had been like she was drowning, or something--
#Zara? Are you all right?# Her mother's voice was calm and perfectly alert, not sounding at all as if Zara had woken her up. Then again, Zara was never sure whether her mother actually slept, or just pretended to as a token gesture towards 'normality'. Mom was funny that way.
#Just fine, Mom. Only a dream,# Zara sent back, pulling the covers up to her chin. #I didn't mean to disturb you.#
#You didn't. Go back to sleep now. You have another shift at the UN today, don't you?#
#Like I really needed to be reminded of that, Mom. Thanks muchly,# Zara sent back with the mental approximation of a groan. She had pulled UN duty for the next week--surprise, surprise. That was the last time she pulled a practical joke on her unit commander. Julio had no sense of humor at all.
#Well, don't get caught next time,# Mom sent back. She sounded absent, as if she were concentrating on something else at the moment.
Zara considered asking her about it, but dismissed the idea. She probably didn't need - or want - to know. #Right,# she tossed back, and closed her eyes with a sigh, not relishing the idea of the tedious day she had in store.
Nick had all the fun.
***
He knew that smell. Antiseptic, chemical--but not a hospital. Definitely not. There was a difference; subtle, but frightening clear to him as he lingered in the gray area between unconsciousness and awareness. Hospitals were where people healed, and this--
Logan kept his eyes closed as his head cleared even further. Restraints--he was in restraints, lying spread-eagled on some sort of table. Something was sticking in his arm - an IV, from the feel of it - and judging by how cold the air seemed, he wasn't wearing much of anything.
Shit-- he thought hazily, and then the memory of what had happened came flooding back, sending adrenalin coursing through his veins as he threw himself against the restraints. Nicholas! he thought frantically, trying to project the thought outwards. Nick! Answer me!
The silence inside his mind was deafening. Logan sagged back against the table, taking a deep breath. Think, he had to think. Nick might be collared, or not even here. Wherever here was.
The low ceiling was smooth tiled metal, nothing distinguishing about it at all. He tried to turn his head to see where he was, but the restraints didn't even let him do that. Someone didn't want him moving around. Logan strained against them again, a growl escaping him as they didn't give an inch. Damn it--
A mechanical hum, broken by a whoosh of escaping air, shattered the silence. Logan froze, a curse dying on his lips as an all-too-familiar scent came to him on the cool, dry air. I should have fucking well known.
"Aren't the accommodations to your liking, Logan?" a cold, hollow voice asked without so much as a trace of amusement. "I'll have to see what I can do about that."
Sinister. The angry response he might have made died on his lips as he realized, all too clearly, how limited his options were. He couldn't even remember the ambush clearly, let alone what had happened to Nick. If his son was still free, Logan didn't want to make the mistake of calling him to Sinister's attention.
"Oh, got a few complaints to make," he grated, finally. "If you let me up, I could get a whole hell of a lot more specific."
"I regret that won't be possible, Logan," Sinister continued, his voice moving around Logan, to the right of the table now. He didn't sound like he was particularly sorry.
Logan gritted his teeth. As angry as he was, he'd never been farther from a berserk rage in his life. That sort of rage was a hot thing, and at the moment he felt as if someone had replaced all his internal organs with chunks of ice. "Should've known it was you, Essex," he growled, and quit struggling--for now. "Not like your Marauders have got enough between their ears to strike out on their own."
"The insults aren't necessary, Logan," Sinister said tonelessly, still not moving into view. "You have something I want. Cooperate, and we can conclude our business with no harm done."
His vision flickered with red for a moment, but Logan fought the sudden surge of rage down. "No harm done?" he snarled.
"Relatively little. I suppose you're referring to your bodyguard." The emotion that hit Logan at Sinister's dismissive tone was something different, closer to despair, and Sinister fell silent for a long moment. "An odd reaction, Logan. Wasn't this young man supposed to be seeing to YOUR safety?"
Logan closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing walls, thick and dark and impenetrable, shielding the truth from Sinister. He and Sulven had hidden the twins as carefully as they could while they were still children - altering their psi-imprints, masking their bio-signatures, raising them in the virtually impregnable fortress the mansion had become after Akkaba, as the first headquarters of the XSE - but they weren't children anymore. They were XSE officers, and the only safety they had was the safety they won for themselves. It had been a wrench, admitting to himself that his kids had grown up. Logan reflected with a sort of despairing irony that he might have been a lot less worried if he'd dared to dream that even major-league threats like Sinister could still be in the dark like this.
The footsteps came closer, and Logan's eyes snapped open as the difference in Sinister's scent became clearer. It was still perfectly recognizable, but with a strange, metallic overtone that reminded him of someone else entirely--
"A very odd reaction," Sinister said, looming over him suddenly. Logan, even considering the restraints, couldn't help recoiling.
Sinister's fingerprints had shown up on operations all over the world for years, but he himself hadn't seen the man in the flesh for nearly a decade and a half. In the flesh--bad choice of words, maybe, Logan thought, staring up in a mixture of disgust and perplexity at the rotted visage hovering above him. Those burning eyes were just as clear and cold as always--that was one constant.
Here and there, Sinister's skin was still that same pasty white, but there were big patches of what almost looked like techno-organics. Dull gray rather than bright silver like Nathan's, they were definitely unhealthy-looking. Sinister smiled faintly, and the motion made the T-O patches ripple and shift unsettlingly.
"You look surprised, Logan," Sinister said calmly. "It's something of a relief, I admit, to learn that secrets can still be kept in this world full of telepaths." He reached up a hand, equally as disfigured by the shifting techno-organic splotches, and ran it over his face. "Nathan would undoubtedly find this highly amusing."
"New look for you," Logan growled, all he could trust himself to say.
"An--unfortunate consequence of experimentation with some later-model Prime Sentinels," Sinister said, lowering his hand. It came back up with an empty syringe in it, and Logan didn't bother trying to pull away as Sinister leaned over him and slid the needle into his arm to begin drawing blood. "You do recall the outbreak of 2015, I trust? You should, given your personal involvement."
There'd been more than a few Prime Sentinel outbreaks over the last twenty years, but Sinister was right; Logan happened to remember that one quite vividly. He didn't think he'd ever forget that day. It still haunted his nightmares every once in a while--the screams, his people dying horribly all around him--
"Their first attempt at biological warfare," Sinister said, pulling the needle out of Logan's arm. "If you discount their method of propagating themselves, of course."
"Your point?" Logan muttered, and then decided to risk it. "Who did what to my 'bodyguard'?" he asked harshly. "Just so I know whose hide I need to go after, once I finish with you."
"My point," Sinister continued meticulously, "is that you were one of only fifteen members of the XSE field teams in Buenos Aires that day who survived the release of the nanite toxin. Your body clearly succeeded in eliminating both the toxin and the nanite infection itself. The proteins adapted for this purpose have a high probability of continued manufacture and viability against a similar--for lack of a better term, organism."
He transferred the blood neatly into a vial. "If the nanites, like most more organic diseases, have adapted as well by continuing to mutate--" Another smile, very wry and somehow more menacing. "I'm sure your healing factor would be up to neutralizing the improved version as well."
"So you're going to use me as a guinea pig," Logan said. "Nice to see some things haven't changed." He glared up at Sinister. "You didn't answer my second question."
"Your bodyguard?" Sinister shrugged. "Creed killed him and threw the body in the harbor."
His jaw clenching tightly enough to crack teeth, Logan stared at the ceiling, trying to will away the mental images Sinister's words had provoked. "Still keeping Vic around, huh?" His voice came out cold and steady, unbelievably so. "You've really got to get yourself some better help, one of these days."
"He has his uses. A pity his healing factor isn't up to the job. We could have avoided all this. Unfortunately, he's never quite been the same since his encounter with your wife."
No, he wasn't going there. He wasn't even going to think about the 'encounter' Sinister was talking about--the last time Creed had been anywhere near his children. That would only serve to drive him right over the edge, and he couldn't let that happen, not here, not now.
Even if Nick could be--no. His healing factor gives him a chance. A chance. And I'm getting out of here to make sure of it. Shutting out the what-ifs, Logan focused again on Sinister, fighting to keep his expression more or less level.
"I'm sure 'Ven'd be just miserable to find out she inconvenienced you," he muttered.
Sinister laughed softly. "Undoubtedly, but let us not complicate things, Logan. I will return after I have done some preliminary tests." Footsteps, moving away from the table, and then that same whoosh of air.
Controlled environment, Logan thought, analyzing the sound. Makes sense, if this is the bastard's lab. Better to focus on the situation--it was certainly more productive than worrying. Logan went about testing his restraints methodically, looking for weak spots.
The unseen door opened again, and he stopped, growling as he caught another familiar scent. "Forge," he said, as calmly as he could, "if I get out of here and don't find out that he's controlling your mind or something, I'm going to kill you."
There was a moment of silence, and then Forge walked over and stood above him. His face was drawn and grim, regret clear as day in his dark eyes. Logan didn't give a fuck. Forge could get down on his hands and knees and beg his forgiveness, and Logan would still rip his heart out if he found out that Forge had done this of his own free will.
"I'm sorry, Logan," Forge murmured. "I wish I could use that excuse, but it's a lot simpler than that." He gave Logan a faint, sad smile. "A lot worse, actually."
"No problem," Logan gritted. "Ripping your guts out through your nostrils it is. I'll keep that in mind."
Some unreadable emotion flashed in Forge's eyes. "I do have the blueprints, you know," he said quietly. "I'll make sure they get to Bishop. It's the least I can do." He leaned a little closer, his eyes narrowing. "Who was the kid, Logan?" Logan kept his mouth shut and stared back at him blackly. Forge's mouth twisted in a humorless smile. "I saw the psimitar. Is that what all the XSE psis are carrying these days?"
"Kids and their fads," Logan hissed. "You know how it is."
The door whooshed open again. "Hey, Maker. Got myself a trophy--want to see?" Creed's voice sneered. Logan pulled against the restraints, growling, and heard Creed laugh. "Hey, runt, you awake? Good." He appeared at Forge's side, and Logan's control slipped even farther at the sight of Nick's psimitar in Creed's hands.
Logan threw himself against the restrains, snarling wordlessly, and Creed smirked down at him. "Gonna hang it on my wall," he said, baring his teeth. "Maybe I'll pretend I took down your woman, rather than some wannabe kid. One of these days I'll have hers next to it."
Somehow, the threat helped him focus, maybe because it was so ridiculous. Logan swallowed and gave a harsh, contemptuous laugh. "You got a deathwish, Vic? In your dreams." Forge moved suddenly, sharply, distracting Logan from Creed.
"What?" Logan snapped, and felt his blood freeze at the intent, horrified way Forge was staring at him, as if he were memorizing his features. Forge shook his head slowly, his eyes wide and haunted, and glanced sideways at the psimitar in Creed's hand.
"Logan--I--"
"Shut the fuck up, Forge!" Logan spat, trying desperately to change the subject. Somehow he knew, without a doubt, exactly what conclusion Forge had just leaped into, and he'd say anything he had to say to stop Forge from spilling it in front of Creed. "I don't want to hear it! Use your fucking excuses on your own reflection for all I care!"
Creed, unfortunately, wasn't dumb. His eyes narrowed as he looked from Logan to Forge, speculatively, and then at the psimitar he held. His gaze went distant and thoughtful for a moment, until a slow, wide grin started to steal across his features.
"I thought there was something familiar about the kid's scent," he murmured, almost delightedly.
"Not Nicholas," Forge whispered numbly. "Logan, I--"
"Was that your boy, Logan? Little Nicky, all grown up?" Creed ran a finger along the psimitar's blade, leaving a red streak of blood behind. "Well, ain't that just grand." Forge's mouth opened and closed, as if the realization had struck him speechless, and Creed laughed. "Oh, if I'd only known. Would've taken my time, for one."
"You're a sick bastard, Creed," Forge said, swallowing as if fighting back nausea.
"You know," Creed said almost thoughtfully, "I remember the punk had a healing factor." He chuckled. "Both your kids did. Made them much more fun to play with, all those years ago." Logan threw himself against the restraints again, desperately this time, and Creed just laughed. "I think I'm going to take a walk down to the docks, make sure I didn't leave any loose ends dangling." He leaned down over Logan, until they were almost nose-to-nose, and bared his teeth. "Don't worry, runt. I find him alive, I'll tell him his daddy was thinking about him before I finish the job."
***
Hairun had lived in Lowtown all his life, and worked for his current employer since his fifteenth year, when he had proved himself useful in the course of some unpleasantness between factions on the docks. It was for this reason that his employer had given him and his current partner, Ahmet, the duty of keeping watch over an old friend of hers. The man once known as 'Patch' was still a legend in Madripoor, but why he had returned was a mystery to all save himself--and Hairun's employer, of course. The lady knew everything that went on in Madripoor.
Hairun and Ahmet had seen the ambush in the Princess Bar, but having orders only to watch, they had hung back. Hairun had been relieved when he'd reported back to the lady and she had told him he and Ahmet had done the right thing. It would have been unfortunate indeed to have angered their employer, although given a choice between that and challenging the servants of the lady's enemy, Hairun was not sure which he would have selected.
The lady had heard his report, and then ordered him to fetch the body that had been discarded in the waters of the harbor. Hairun would therefore fetch the body for her. He had been sent on far more unusual missions.
"There," Ahmet said, pointing it out where it floated in the dark waters of the harbor. Those who had dumped the body here had made no effort to weigh it down so it would sink; it was almost as if they had not cared to hide what they had done. Most unusual.
Hairun nodded, and rowed their small boat over to it. They pulled it in, and Hairun winced at the blood all over the young man's clothing. The lady had been most firm, but he truly had no idea what she wanted with the corpse of someone who had clearly died such a violent death.
"He is dead," Ahmet pronounced in his usual taciturn way. "He has been too long in the water."
Hairun leaned over the young man, taking a closer look to try and determine what had killed him. There were gashes on his throat--almost claw marks, but not deep enough to have produced that amount of blood. That was odd--
As he stared at them, his eyes widened slowly. "Ahmet," he said, stunned. "Look." The torn flesh was knitting itself back together, slowly but surely. He looked up at his partner, and was startled into a cry when the young man's body spasmed suddenly, rocking the entire boat.
Dark blue eyes flew open, staring up wildly at Hairun and Ahmet, but only for a moment, as he began almost immediately to choke. Hairun reached out instinctively, turning him over. He and Ahmet watched in disbelief as the young man threw up a truly appalling amount of blood and water, his whole body shuddering violently as it was racked by spasms of coughing.
Finally, as Hairun reached out somewhat fearfully to steady him, the young man slumped, unconscious once more. "He is not dead," Hairun said repressively to his partner, in an attempt to cover his own stunned awe. "You are always too quick about these things."
Ahmet shrugged. "Let us get him back to the lady, then," he said respectfully, and picked up an oar.
to be continued...