Of Ragged Wings and Hollow Dreams
by Jaya Mitai
Here it is. And I didn’t even wrap anything up. *Sigh. * It just keeps going and going and going . . .
Disclaimer – Marvel’s, no money, don’t sue, I’m hungry. And I eat EVERYTHING. Rated . . . er, PG-15?
Special thanks to Duey and PK and Alicia and PollyMel and Lynxie, for letting me dump on them, and the #plotting crew for their efforts in helping me name the dag-blamed thing. =)
Domino was waiting for him when he came around the corner.
She knew LeBeau wasn’t someone to putz around with. From just the X-Men’s files on him, he’d grown up with a world class thief for a father and an assassin for a wife, and had a whole array of mutant abilities to choose from, ranging from spatial awareness to agility to his neat exploding tricks to empathy. Uniform was bulletproof, no surprise around here, and he was gorgeous.
But not her type.
He didn’t seem surprised to see her standing there, nor did he stop. “Domino,” he murmured with a nod, his Cajun accent somewhat subdued.
She snagged him by the collar of his duster and threw him into the wall.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned in her most hostile/neutral mission voice, backing up a step as he shook himself off the wall and glared.
“Dat was less dan friendly, chere.” He watched her a moment more, then continued towards the front hall, after Nate, as though she hadn’t spoken.
She pulled her gun, clicking off the safety. “Which knee don’t you want.”
He turned at her words, wincing, those unworldly red eyes scrunching in a very cute manner. “Dat would be painful.” He leaned away, spreading his hands in a very open gesture before bowing slightly at the waist, touching his forehead in a _salute_ to her!
Dom didn’t lower the gun, and his lips pulled into a smile on one side. She wasn’t surprised to see him pull two cards out of nowhere, holding them casually as he watched her. “Heard about y’. Merc, dey say, pretty handy wid a weapon. Not as handy as me. Y’playin’ wid the big boys, now. Careful who y’pull dat weapon on.”
“You are one arrogant son of a bitch, LeBeau, but I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. I’m going to repeat myself, very slowly.”
He half-smiled, something under the charm that she didn’t recognize. “Y’tryin’ t’tell me not t’tail de man. He all growed up an’ he c’n take care o’himself.” He kept an easy, non-offensive stance as she circled to his right, and something about his teasing lilt seemed more than a bit sincere, almost surprised she would insinuate he had been planning to in the first place. “Heard y’de first time, Domino. Y’don’ want me t’tail him, fine, I don’ tail him. Dat all y’want?”
She blinked, the gun lowering of itself. Fine. He’d given his word, and that should - the link was tickling her, almost seeming to twitch a bit, and she felt a slight pressure on her shields, like when Nate was trying to glean a thought from the top of her head without using the link, only different . . .
The gun came back up. “Nice,” she snarled, gesturing to the right with the gun. That was what empathy felt like? Cute trick, Cajun. Best let this argument go on behind closed doors.
His look of chagrin was award-winning. “I c’n try, eh?” He backed obligingly into a side room, having put the cards away a few moments before and holding his hands casually slight away from his sides. Like he didn’t have a card up his sleeve, literally. Domino kicked the door shut behind them without glancing at it, tucking the gun away. He might listen to reason.
“Do you have _any_ idea how he would react to finding out his damned father sent you to keep an eye on him?”
“D’you have any idea how nervous de idea of lettin’ Jeannie in his head made him?”
I can imagine. “Hell yes,” she hissed. “You’re not Mr. Open about your own mind, to hear others tell it. You probably know damn well what it’s like to have something on your mind you’d rather not share with the class!”
The look he gave her was positively dangerous, and his deceptively slow strides carried him to her much faster than she anticipated, absolutely silently on the carpeting of the side office.
“Y’don’ know what y’talkin’ about,” he murmured, his accent thick with emotion she couldn’t put her finger on, tight and hard. “De man is dis close t’makin’ me t’ink he ain’t who he look like.”
“Don’t you think I’d _notice?_”
Remy snorted, face less than an inch from hers. “Considerin’ y’sleepin’ wid de man, I’d hope so.”
He ignored her bristling. “His accent not jivin’ wid what I listened to on de way here. He not lettin’ anyone, includin’ you, into his head. He not lettin’ Jeannie help him when one o’y’team missin’. He’s guarded, he’s shielded. Tell me, chere, how ‘xactly y’c’n prove t’me dat he _is_ Cable?”
Her eyes had narrowed to near slits, but she couldn’t deny his words. Yes, that weird Askani accent of his was slightly different. She assumed it was either stress, or the far more likely reason. He and Stryfe were still talking to each other, because he couldn’t shut Stryfe up. If they weren’t speaking English, he’d be thinking in his native tongue, and that might easily explain things.
As for not letting Jean and her in . . . that was easy. The idiot actually thought Stryfe would hurt them.
He watched her eyes shift as she sorted through her memories.
“I can explain away all the ‘evidence’ you’ve presented. Besides, what if you are right, and he’s really Stryfe? If he sees you, what do you think he’s going to do?”
Remy grinned, leaning back and up, tossing a stray lock of red-brown hair from his eyes. Damn, the man was tall, and he knew it. She couldn’t be intimidated so easily. “He won’ see me.”
She made a face. “He’ll smell you a mile away, with the pint of aftershave you’re wearing.”
“I don’ follow dat close.”
“You’d never get inside the safehouse anyway. He had to specially calibrate them for me to keep the security from blowing my head off.”
“Dat’s where de t’ief part come in handy. Don’ tell me y’worried about ol’ Gambit ‘ere.”
She moved her jaw, surprised to find it stiff, surprised it was so hard to spit out something so simple. “I don’t want you chasing him away.”
Remy cocked his head to the side measuring. “An’ what make you t’ink dat Cable run if he see me, eh?”
She turned from him sharply, furious. Had he been responsible for that admission, or did she need to tell someone _that_ badly?
Because he’s scared. Because he’s afraid he’ll hurt the kids, or me.
Because he knows that mistrust will only slow the process of finding Sam. Because he feels responsible.
Because I blame him.
But that was ridiculous! He must know by now that that blame had been only temporary, for needing someone to blame for the tragedy and finding him a likely target. Hank had assured her the clone died of his wounds, not suffocation. Whether he’d told Nathan, she didn’t know.
So he wasn’t responsible, especially now that they knew it _was_ a clone, not designed to come back from the dead, to be immortal. And even if he hadn’t forced Sam to talk about it, he’d been there, in hindsight. Always available, in the kitchen working instead of the ‘office.’ Sitting on the porch, watching the sunset. Sparring only himself, working out alone instead of with ‘Star or Ric. Always available, if Sam had taken that first step.
She shook her head slightly, again wondering if LeBeau was dragging it up with his wonky empathy. She couldn’t shield against something she didn’t know, and she knew he wasn’t a telepath, and couldn’t read her thoughts, but she felt guilty despite that knowledge. Guilty that she had driven Nate away, when that kiss last night very obviously hinted that he needed support, and couldn’t - or wouldn’t - find that comfort in her.
She’d never felt him tremble like that, and never had be been so forward, so spontaneous, as he had been right then. She’d half think he really was Stryfe, but Stryfe would never give her that searching impression, that needing something from her, before breaking it off, clearly not finding what he was looking for –
Or had he?
“He’d run because he knows he has a better shot at tracking down Sam than the rest of you,” she finally answered simply. “And he’d know that if you voted not in his favor, his own fucking _parents_ would turn on him.” She whirled, eyes roving about the office in search of something to break.
Besides LeBeau’s neck.
“Dat not true,” he said softly. “Jeannie more worried ‘bout him dan I ever recall seein’ her -”
“Yeah, well, she should be,” Domino replied hotly. “He’s hurting. Hell, we can all see that! But the last thing he needs to get from us is that we don’t trust him!” Us? We? Since when have I become one of _them_?
“Do you?”
She stopped, pausing, somehow very reluctant to look into those glowing eyes and give her answer. He waiting patiently for her to make up her mind, wandering behind the desk to lean her elbows on the leather office chair, as though the barricade between them would protect her from any manipulation.
“I trust Nate,” she said simply.
“An’ y’t’ink Nate de one drivin’?”
“I think that he has control, yes. I think that he doesn’t have the handle on Stryfe that he’d like us to believe, and I think that he’d sooner kill himself than let that madman have control again.” She was about to congratulate herself on the rock-steady tone until she actually heard her own words.
Oh, no, Nate, you’re not . . . you didn’t . . . you _wouldn’t_ . . .
She still felt the link, though, and she hung on to it for dear life, hoping beyond hope that he’d feel it, open it, just to reassure her that he wasn’t about to do something stupid, like lock himself in the safehouse and wait for that little rat’s help when Jean was right here!
Not Xavier. He was off waging war on the FoH about the Gulf War nerve gas leftovers they’d used in a church, on a Sunday. He was having great success, and whoop-de-do for him, but he could have been a lot of help in this matter.
If Nate actually trusted him, and that was something she doubted very much.
“But y’t’ink he de one makin’ de choices?”
She nodded numbly, not really even paying attention to him. She just tugged at the link, listening to it like one would for rings on the other end of a phone line when no one’s picked up yet.
“Nothing different about de man.”
“Accent, but that’s probably because he’s talking to Stryfe in his head. They both know English, but can’t swear as well in it yet.” She imagined they both did a lot of swearing at one another. Then Dom sharpened her attention with an irritated eye-flick. _Damn_ the man was good!
“What about in bed?”
This time he was the one surprised at how quickly she could arm herself, and she sighted on his left knee. “That,” she cooed in a deceptively sweet voice, “is none of your goddamn business.”
His smile made her want to shoot him in the mouth. “Dat all I needed t’know. It too late f’me t’track him down now, y’did y’deed. But don’ get in m’way again, chere. Dis is no game.”
“No,” she agreed humorlessly, “It’s not.”
Somewhere, there were footsteps. They were very far away, but the only sounds in the absolutely still room. No sounds of air or machines. No bright of lights and fire. No feel of pain and hands.
Just . . . footsteps.
And it was cold.
Sam didn’t dare open his eyes, too caught up in the absolute bliss of painless quiet, too afraid to discover that it was all an illusion, or a game, or a spell that would break if he let them know he was awake, and alive. The cold didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should have; it was such a difference from the hot pain that had made up so much of his life so recently. Or had it been recently?
He speculated how old he was, how long he’d been here, what had happened. No time for such contemplations; he’d never had the time before. Sinister wasn’t stupid enough to leave him alone, let him formulate a plan of escape or attack. He hadn’t been left alone since he’d come here.
And he’d been here for so long. Everything before was indistinct, foggy. Far away, as far away as the footsteps that echoed so quietly around him. How much time did it take to do that? Or was it because he was in a clone body, and they would grow fainter and fainter with every death?
He shuddered involuntarily at the idea that his body was rotting somewhere while he occupied a copy grown for him by Sinister. Did the scientist think that would indebt him somehow? Or had he built in failsafes, and Sam would die if he left? Or attack his friends and family? Or act as a traitor for Sinister, shuttling information?
Many worse things followed the logical progression, and Sam forced his eyes open as a distraction, physical pain much easier to deal with than mental anguish and fear.
He was alone, strapped to a table in a room without computers, a strange light in the room though he could find no obvious source.
And the footsteps were getting closer.
He glanced at his wrists, trying to figure out the cuffs, and couldn’t stifle the almost silent cry of surprise and fear as he saw the stick-like appendage that was attached to him. He had never seen such a bony arm and wrist in his life, except on Somalian kids on the commercials. It didn’t hurt, and he was afraid to move it for a second, afraid to confirm that it was really his, no muscle left, wasted away to spotted flesh and sharp bones, farmer’s tan gone, white as a skeleton.
But the hand obediently closed into a fist that shook with the effort of holding itself folded that way.
He was too weak to fight Sinister. He was too weak to do anything.
He pulled ineffectually at the metal cuffs, hard and cold against his skin, which felt thick and brittle, like it might crack off at any time. He couldn’t support a blast field, not like this. He couldn’t do anything. Helpless as he had been when the FoH had beaten him, helpless as the kitten in the bag, waiting to be drowned.
No!
He yanked on his wrists, counting on the thinness of his frame to be sufficient to slide out of the bonds. He wasn’t going to let Sinister waste him away to nothing, he wasn’t! If they couldn’t find him and rescue him, he had to rescue himself!
He freed his right wrist with little trouble, moving to his left as the footsteps grew louder. They knew he was awake. Sinister was coming, sending a Marauder to fetch him for more tests, for more torture. For more experiments and pain and embarrassment. Maybe something worse.
Or maybe he’d outlived his usefulness, and they were coming to finish him off.
He yanked hard on his left wrist, the bones not small enough to slide through as easily, and his skin split at the constant yanking, hot blood running over those skin-covered bones and collecting beneath it, the sting of the breaking flesh so insignificant of pain that he hardly noticed it. He spread the blood, rotating his wrist so that the blood covered it, made it slicker. He nearly got it stuck, nearly broke his wrist, but at last his hand was freed.
He was panting from the strain of it, his entire upper body shaking with the effort he’d put into such a simple task, and he fought tears of frustration as he somehow hauled his head up to look at the rest of his wasted frame. There was nothing covering him, not so much as a sheet or a hospital gown, and his ribs were easily visible and as prominent as mountain ranges, his skin stretched over his bones tightly, pale and bloodless. His knees looked ridiculously knobby, his legs so thin and straight that they resembled the wooden legs of a puppet.
How was he going to free his ankles?
The footsteps were not slowing down, approaching with such rhythmic regularity that it seemed the ticking of a clock, counting down the seconds of his life, counting down his seconds of freedom, his opportunity to run, to fight, to do more than scream, and here he was, crying like a little kid who lost a toy!
The footsteps were very close now, loud and ringing, a hint of jingle to them, like keys . . . or weapons. Not Sinister, then. A Marauder. His stomach clenched, nausea almost overwhelming him as he yanked himself into a sitting position, fighting dizziness the whole time.
He felt the sides of the table frantically, looking for a release or a button or something, anything. Thin as his feet were, there was no way he could bend his arches to the extent he’d need to get away. His blood smeared all over the metal as he searched, trying to stretch enough to grab the end of the table and feel the edge near his feet –
He _felt _ something shift inside his abdomen, frightening but not painful, and his fingers found a button. As soon as he touched it, the cuffs sprang open, and he yanked his feet out of them, rolling behind the table, gasping for air and pain as his knees made contact with the ground, nerves unprotected by muscle screaming at the impact.
The footsteps were close.
The footsteps were there.
He tried to hold his breath, listening to them increase to a terrific volume. They didn’t stop, they just kept getting louder, and louder . ..
And then they passed, and receded as slowly as they had approached.
Sam couldn’t help the shuddering sob that grabbed him and shook him silently, and he curled into a fetal position beside the metal table, crying until he was asleep once more.
Nathan tried technique after technique in an attempt to handle the pain that seemed beyond the capability to even perceive, let alone bear. Never could he remember anything hurting on such a physical level. The pain literally was everywhere; it was in his mind, his one retreat from the physical pain of body. Pain that made him want to curl up and sob like a small child does when he knows his mother isn’t going to come make it any better.
But was hardly a little boy, and sobbing was little more than Stryfe wanted. And what if he broke? What if he begged Stryfe like the man wanted him to? What then? Stryfe was insane. The pain wouldn’t end, or even abate. Stryfe would just get more creative with it, and Nathan’s stomach curled at the thought of what Stryfe could do, in time, to all the people he cared about.
And they were all within reach. Dom. His parents. The kids. Everything he held dear in this century slept in the same house with him. Surely they had noticed his erratic behavior. Surely they were thinking about it, they’d be prepared.
Surely they’d use the force necessary to stop Stryfe.
Dom wouldn’t. He had no doubt that if Stryfe attempted to get rough with her she’d shoot him in a heartbeat. It wouldn’t be a killing shot, and it wouldn’t even slow Stryfe down. Keep blaming me. Stay angry with me, and just concentrate on finding Sam.
Her blame burned on a different level than the pain of the ‘treatment’ he received at his brother’s hands. It was his fault, and she was right. He should have handled Sam long before it got that out of hand. He should have known on that beach that Sam wasn’t dealing with that type of grief as well as he could have been. Oath, he _had_ known Sam was going to fly! He’d thought Theresa would be an emergency back-up only, and so had she, they’d both been so surprised by his attack on Dom and subsequent fleeing.
And he should have picked up on that. He should have known Sam would do something like that, would anticipate them.
He should have sent one of the kids to watch Sam’s family.
He should have banished the thoughts from that state trooper in Virginia, should have left the flonqing bigot on the road crying like an orphaned dog -!
He brought his hands up to cradle his head, keeping his fingers from the poorly bandaged wound. It would still kill him, eventually, but he could easily see Stryfe’s plan. By destroying his ability to use the telepathy and telekinesis, Stryfe was guaranteeing his place. If he was removed, and Nathan placed back in power, unable to stop the T-O, he’d die. Simple as that.
A nearly fool-proof plan, actually, and one he was having a hard time countering. Having another telepath fight the T-O constantly was simply unrealistic, and considering the pain Stryfe had caused simply by channeling the TK . . . He had a small reserve left, a tiny part of his abilities he’d been carefully shielding. Not enough to stop the T-O, maybe buy him a week at most. And the pain would be intolerable.
He toyed with the idea of one concentrated TK blast at his prison. It might be enough to kill him, and to hell with Stryfe. He didn’t know if his body would die without his essence, since Stryfe matched it so closely.
Would he be surrendering and giving the world a monster in his place?
And what of his mission? And Blaquesmith? As many disputes as they’d had, he knew in his heart Blaquesmith would be devastated if Stryfe took his place as the Chosen One, to gather the Twelve for the final battle with
Apocalypse. The man simply wasn’t sane enough to understand the concept, and even if he did, he would never take it seriously enough, and in battle he made too many mistakes. His own arrogance would kill him long before that battle.
And what would he be leaving his family to? Sam? Dom?
The same thing they’re exposed to now, he snarled to himself, keeping the whimper in his chest as he shifted slightly and his head moved, causing stars of pain to explode behind his nonexistent eyelids. You’re doing no one any good here. Better off . . . dead?
He wasn’t about to let Stryfe off that easily. Once he was out of this place, that was the end. Guilt or no, Stryfe was going to die again for this. He had no more tolerance.
The thought twisted his face into something too much like an expression of pain for comfort. If they did figure it out, he wondered how much pleasure Logan would have in taking him down. Dream come true for the man. There was no shortage of ‘friends’ that would be more than happy to kill Stryfe. Oath, maybe even the Askani. If they knew.
If anyone knew, yet.
The tomb door opened, bathing him in intensely white light, and even the simple stimulus enticed more pain from him that he knew he could handle. He slipped soundlessly into the blissful unconsciousness of a man who knows that beyond all that pain lies the Great Sleep, and he’d rather get there sooner than later.
Stryfe sighed in irritation as Cable passed out. “Oath, you weakling,” he hissed, dimming the lights and dissipating the cage, the unconscious mind of Dayspring floating before his mind’s eye in the shape of a badly beaten, slow-breathing Cable with a bloodied piece of gauze wrapped about his head.
Curiously, Stryfe unwound the gauze, viewing the open, gushing wound that physically represented his mind’s state. It was interesting to him that while Dayspring remained in the back of their minds, his mind’s ability to channel telekinesis and focus thoughts for telepathy could be damaged without the actual power base taking a hit. While he had to be careful lest he do permanent physical damage to their actual brain, much of what made them able to control the power was more mental than physical.
Which meant that there was no physical damage for them to heal, should Nathan be restored. It would be mental damage, and if he made it hard enough to repair . . .
Then Nate would run out of time.
Curiously, Stryfe poked his finger into the wound, again a visual representation of a telepathic probe, trying to find the extent of the damage his brotherly love had done. The channels that his mind used to control and focus the TK were collapsed and thick with blood and mucus, and he withdrew his finger, disgusted. Surely _that _ was sufficient damage.
He mentally wrapped Nate right back in his metal sarcophagus, patterned after the T-O, though in the total darkness inside Dayspring couldn’t properly admire it, and opened his eyes in the physical world, exhaustedly crawling from the Camry he’d found the keys to on Nate’s dresser, and trudging up the stairs from the garage to the main house.
Oath, he was tired! A day’s worth of recalibrating the safehouse’s sensors so as not to register a difference in his mental health and scans. A day’s worth of playing with machines that knew there was something the matter with him, that even tried to correct it, running diagnostics on themselves to find what the matter was.
When these so-called ‘superheroes’ and ‘friends’ hadn’t yet thought to even confront him. The people Cable chose to surround himself with!
He did a brief scan, picking up no one, and wearily climbed the stairs to the second floor. To the bedroom, and that flonqing woman!
He stopped on the stairs, human hand gripping the smooth woods, sanded by years of jeaned bottoms and hands brushing it’s stained oak surface.
What WAS it about Domino? She had fire, life, a spark of adventure and attitude that he usually found alluring, far above the mundane fear and adoration that so many women had thrown his way in lieu of seduction. It had been something he had found desirable in Aliya. Fierce love and loyalty.
So what was it that drove him to irritation whenever he was in the same room with Domino?
The hand tightened on the cool wood as his mind bounced from one possibility to the next. Did he resent her love with Nathan? Surely not. Did he find her an irritant due to the link? Not any more than she would be without it. Had Cable . . .
Had Cable implanted some sort of predisposition in his mind, to be irritated by the woman, while he had been captive in his brother’s mind?
The possibility amused him, pulling his lips into a smile not unlike before battle. Could there be something implanted deep in his unconscious, that would cause him not to hate Domino, just be mildly frustrated with her when in her presence? Was Dayspring that clever?
#A deterrent against what happened to Aliya, eh, brother,# he sent to Cable, but if the man was conscious, he didn’t respond.
Stryfe chuckled quietly, continuing up the stairs. If it were something so simple, perhaps his awareness would negate it, and what better way to reveal himself to them, with his hostage firmly encased and his plan finished?
Stryfe climbed the stairs and disappeared into the upstairs hall, his scan passing over the shielded Remy LeBeau without detecting him, and two glowing, unearthly red pupils watched until he heard the door upstairs open and close.
“Gotcha, mon ami.”
Domino didn’t bother to take off her tanktop, just slipped off her pants and fell into the bed, eyes grainy with exhaustion. An eyelash was tickling her cheek, and she picked it up, remembering her father’s words with a small smile as she settled into the pillow.
“Okay, angel, hold it up, and make a wish, and then blow it away and the wish will come true.”
She inspected the tiny little thing in the moonlight coming in through the window, flipping it around in her fingers, watching the sheen of moonlight dance on the tiny hair.
“I wish . . .” I wish we find Sam, and he’s alive and safe. Not very likely, if Sinister had had him for two and a half days and no Sam had turned up on their doorsteps. Despite the searching, telepathically or otherwise, they all knew that they wouldn’t find him until Sinister let them. And if Sinister hadn’t yet . . .
Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry.
She closed her eyes, blowing the eyelash away, knowing it would eventually land on the floor and be vacuumed up with the rest of the filth to be thrown away. Uncomfortable with that thought, she turned onto her side, hand going to the side of the bed Nathan should be on, fingers splayed where his back should have been.
She’d checked the safehouse a few hours after Nate had left the mansion, and he hadn’t been there, hadn’t been anywhere. Hadn’t answered the link. Disappeared. Her stomach was still clenched, cramped tightly in the familiar ache before a battle. He was in trouble. Had Blaquesmith teleported him off somewhere? She wouldn’t put it past the little insect.
And what of LeBeau’s suspicions? What if . . .
She shook her head sharply to dislodge the though, her lower lip crawling under her teeth. Great. So not only do I betray his trust, now I doubt him. Really racking up the points on this one.
Her fingers stroked the bedsheets idly, her mind too edgy for sleep. She needed to talk to him tonight, when there was still time to undo some of the damage she’d done him. Only her sigh broke the silence, and as the clock neared midnight, she felt her eyes growing heavier, her body ready for the sleep that her mind simply wouldn’t allow.
She pulled the thin sheet over her as the room chilled. Nate, I didn’t mean it. No, that wasn’t right. Nate, you stupid lunk - no, he’d ask what a lunk was. It wasn’t your fault. Too blunt. Nate, I don’t blame you. Oh, there’s a good one; let’s just lie outright. Nate, I think . . .
The door opened quietly, and Domino feigned sleep, touching the link without making it a tug. He’d been closed all day, hiding in the safehouse, not so much as a trickle of frustration or guilt reached her through the iron-tight hold he’d imposed upon it.
Oh, Nate, let someone in . . .
He moved across the darkened room silently, hesitating only once before entering the bathroom, the snap of the light clicking on. After a minute, she heard the shower start.
I could just walk in there, like I did a few nights ago, and just beat the man into a pulp –
“Domino? Child, please, don’t panic –“
_Child? _ She jumped out of the bed, gun pulled from between the mattresses and aimed at the nonexistent heart of her least favorite teleporter almost before he could blink.
“Not _you _ too –“
He held up his hands imploringly, and her gun was ripped from her hands, flying to his as thought it had elected to do so itself. “I haven’t long, you must be calm.” Large, insectisoid eyes looked at her imploringly.
“Stryfe is currently in control of their mind and body. I would allow Nathan the time to fight the battle himself, but things are falling into place much more swiftly than we anticipated. I beg you, fair woman, for your assistance.”
She blinked, momentarily stunned, shifting her weight back. She’d never heard Blaquesmith _beg _. Begging was not a word that one could easily apply to Blaquesmith’s usual mode of behavior. If you didn’t jump when he said jump, he simply made you, with no apologies, Askani never flonqing apologize –
“I can’t do a thing,” she stage-whispered, keeping her voice low and an ear cocked at the shower. “He’s blocking the link.”
“I need you only to distract him,” and then Blaquesmith hesitated. “But fully, you must convince him to loosen his hold on the telepathic link. I . . . cannot protect your mind, should Stryfe desire to retaliate.”
Footsteps.
He didn’t hide, this time. There was nowhere _to_ hide, even if he had that strength to move. It was futile - was that the point Sinister was trying so hard to drive home? That he had no hope of rescue, of escape? Why else would Sinister give him so much time to plan a course of action?
Training had kicked in hours ago, Scott’s voice ringing in his ears as clear as day. “Whenever you find yourself held against your will, the first thing you need to do is assess your surroundings. What do you see, and what conditions can you change.”
The door was sliding, no hinges, and he couldn’t find a trigger. He still hadn’t managed to find the light source, and had to assume that the walls themselves were glowing, which was little comfort. The only object in the room was the raised metal slab he had woken upon. No switches, plugs, outlets, nothing. No way to short the door, no weapon with which to pry it open, no way to communicate outside the room. Then again, it obviously wasn’t soundproof, as he could hear the footsteps, steadily approaching.
Even if he _could_ leave the room, he’d never get far. His legs wouldn’t support his weight for long, and he had already attempted and failed to blast. Whether it was weakness, an inhibiting field, or something worse, he didn’t know. All he knew was that his knees had shaken so badly when he’d walked just from the bed to the door that he couldn’t do a thing to protect himself, or get himself out of this mess. He’d have a hard enough time in perfect shape, with a team full of Marauders in the house.
The only thing he could change was yelling, and hope a prisoner heard him, and let him out . . . ? Not likely. The footsteps were getting louder, in time to his pulse. He cocked his head. More than one set. He counted two distinct types, one an almost click of high heels.
High heels? Sinister in drag? A hysterical giggle bubbled silently out of him, and after a moment, he stopped. It really wasn’t funny, the concept, it really wasn’t . . . The footsteps continued to approach, their echoes almost deafeningly loud in the silence.
Shouldn’t he at least be able to hear himself . . . ? Was the echo being somehow magnified? He hummed a bit of the Western One-step.
Air went over his vocal chords, feeling tight, like after a football game. His throat constricted and relaxed with the right notes, and the air continued out of his mouth, never causing the chords to vibrate. Muscles in his throat tightened and loosened, and he opened his mouth. Tried to say his name.
Other than the softest whisper of air passing his lips, there was nothing. He tried to yell, furtively.
Nothing. Not a sound made it to his lips.
He stopped, swallowing, and brought his knees up to his chest, his back firmly against the base of the metal bed, hidden from view should someone enter, but easy to spot once you walked around the bed. No place to hide, no way to even yell for help. His spine pressed painfully against the metal tables, nothing but the thinnest stretch of skin to protect the nerves, and his long fingers wrapped around his stinging wrists, the cuts scabbed over but painful and swollen.
What have the done to me?
The footsteps didn’t pass this time. They continued right on into the room.
“Look, junior decided to get out of bed. And we didn’t say nap time was over.”
He tensed. Not a voice he recognized, male, American, and hard. Which one was it? He didn’t want to know, just kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Maybe if he convinced them he was broken, and he gained back a little strength, he could overpower one with surprise, at least make it into the hall –
“Come out come out wherever you are,” Arclight’s teasing voice sung. “Bleeding? Want Mommy to come kiss it make it better?”
“Kind of hard to do that when your lips are rotting off,” the male voice murmured under his breath, and then the footsteps diverged, and came around the bed, on opposite sides.
And Sam remained perfectly still, not moving, barely breathing. Leave me alone, I’m no threat, I didn’t do anything –
Rough hands yanked him up by his armpits, throwing him back against the metal slab with such force that it knocked the wind out of him, spine bent painfully over the edge of the dais, and his eyes flew open as a cough, curiously muted, barged out of his throat.
“Well, whaddaya know. He’ll finally stop that girly screaming.”
He identified the man instantly. Purple costume, long, dark hair, no moustache - that was Riptide. Arclight looked the same as always, white uniform with boots, pinning his arm with one hand as she took his chin with the other, hands frighteningly gentle.
“I think I like you better quiet,” she murmured, stroking his cheek a moment before leaning over and kissing him full on the lips. He tried to shake himself out of her grasp, but her fingers held him like iron, and he barely felt the prick at all.
He stiffened, and Arclight released him, his head smacking back against the metal to see the face of Sinister, directly above him, just pulling the syringe from his neck.
“It won’t hurt,” the scientist cooed with a strangely satisfied look, and Sam’s stomach tightened, once. Then every muscle in his body jerked and relaxed, bit by bit. The hands holding him down against the bed were suddenly the only thing keeping him from sliding to the floor, his pleas falling from silent lips upon deaf ears.
No I haven’t done anything I’m not a threat –
He managed to hold his head up only a second, then it fell, and with it the rest of his resistance, his eyes closing gently, spine sliding vertebra by vertebra over the edge of the slab, towards the floor.
It was over in seconds.
continued in Of Kismet Wings and Killing Dreams