Snippet: Hobbit: Northern Night

@lynati, this is still your fault. Ok, and last night’s work was the fault of the person who made me want to write stompy things.

A snippet from last night’s work on one of the unfinished pieces of the AU. Current working title is “Ambushing Thorin”.

The flames that blaze through the trees were enough to see better the pair of riders who’d harried them from the south, and who’d picked off orcs who’d tried to sneak around them, or wargs who’d come too close to snapping a dwarf up. Dwalin is glad that Thorin was not conscious to see for himself by the time they could be seen, or to see the pale little warg who had pulled at the tail of Azog’s white warg when she had clamped down on Thorin. Who’d stood over him while Bilbo had tackled the orc who Azog had commanded to kill Thorin.

He thinks the little warg must be kin to those that Fíli and Kíli ride, to fight so fiercely against her own in defense of a dwarf, but he still won’t trust her. Even if she is now carried in the claws of the same eagle who’d scooped up Thorin, whimpering and terrified but alive. Dwalin isn’t sure what to say later, when Thorin does wake – and he will wake, if Dwalin has to threaten Gandalf himself to help.

How does he tell his king that the sister-sons he had thought lost were alive and in the hands of orcs? That they rode as if they were orcs themselves, and had tried to get to Thorin to take him, if Dwalin had heard the shouts between them right. To take Thorin back to their mistress, whoever that might be, as they had been bidden.

How does Dwalin tell Thorin that he had seen his own death or worse in the eyes of the boys who had grown into vicious fighters, and it had only been the arrival of the eagles that had driven them back?

Dwalin turns his face into the feathers of the eagle he rides, taking deep breaths as he tries to sort it all in his mind. This will wound Thorin as deeply as the loss had the first time, and Dwalin doesn’t know that he wants to be the one to speak it. To speak it to Dis, if she had not seen herself – and Dwalin cannot imagine she failed to notice her sons armored and armed as if orcs, riding wargs with a skill born of years.

Snippet: Star Trek: DS9: Burning Bridges

Just a snippet from later in the AU, because I was watching the last episodes of the last season yesterday, and cackled with glee about having a place to sneak Aerit into the interstitials of canon, and how to tweak canon for this AU.

“Send a message. Inform Damar that his wife and son are dead.” Aerit watches the boy sleeping with his head on his mother’s lap. “Tell them that they were killed along with two other Cardassians, a man and a woman.”

“Is that wise?” Bashir keeps his voice low, for which Aerit is glad. It seems neither she nor Garak had taught him quite well enough.

“To let Damar, and Garak, think that not only are they dead, but so are you and I?” Aerit meet’s Bashir’s gaze steadily. “Nothing is more important than the State, no matter the sacrifices we must make for it. If we are dead, their devotion to the State will have no competition. There will be no concerns for those they care for being found and killed, because we are dead. If later this is discovered to be an error, well, that will be a day to celebrate.”

“And if the Dominion finds out we’re not dead before Cardassia is free, and it is safe to inform Damar and Garak?”

“Than we die in truth.” Aerit shrugs. “And the State lives on. Garak knows that. Damar knows that. They will understand.” At least Garak will understand, and he will make sure that Damar does as well, if he does not.

Star Wars: In the Silence and the Dark: Descent

Still no titles.

@poplitealqueen

Warnings: torture (use of electricity, and control of food), isolation, restraints

The water isn’t constantly electrified, nor can he discern a pattern to it, and for all that he tries not to let it effect him, Qui-Gon knows it is. He cannot make himself reach for the water without hesitating, or at least flinching. It is the only thing he can be certain he’s getting enough of, and now he is beginning to fear trying to get any at all.

How long after that something else changes, he can’t tell. It’s not much, but the temperature drops just enough that he cannot stay warm if he stays still. There is more water now, but he still cannot stop flinching – and with good reason, as it still is electrified at irregular intervals.

When he sleeps, he wakes cold, or is shocked awake when he rolls to the center of the room and the water is electrified. Nothing more than naps, enough to keep going for a while, but without being able to reach for the Force to replenish his reserves, Qui-Gon knows they won’t be enough.

He’s not certain how the next torment is introduced to him, whether it is something in the food or the water, but the pain stabs through his joints like vibroknives. The first bright shock of it lasts only seconds, but some of it lingers, like bruises, for what might be days, might be weeks. It makes it harder to sleep at all, even for the naps he’d been able to manage before.

When the light shows again, he can’t help but ask, “How much longer do you plan on keeping me here?”

Qui-Gon knows he shouldn’t give up on being rescued, but he doesn’t know how long he has been here without any sign of anyone but the person who feeds him. It’s getting harder to hold onto hope.

“As long as I want to.” There’s a moment’s silence. “Do you want out?”

He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, remembering what happened when he had confirmed he was hungry after first waking in here.

“Does it matter what I want?”

“It matters what you want, and when you want it.”

“So you can deny it to me?” That, he hadn’t meant to say at all.

“Of course.”

Whoever it is says nothing more, just pours the familiar goop through the hole, and leaves Qui-Gon once more in the dark. He holds the sticky mass in his hands for a moment before letting it slide free, and onto the floor. He knows it is foolish, but he doesn’t want to face the pain again. At least if it’s something in his food, he’ll know this time.

When the Jedi stops eating, Joru puts a sedative in the water, and lifts the plug of stone free of the floor once he is certain the Jedi is unconscious. Time for a new residence for his toy.

He makes certain the cuffs are just a little too tight to be comfortable, height and position already adjusted so the Jedi can neither stand, nor sit or even comfortably kneel. Crouched, instead, like a disobedient pet.

Then, all he must do is wait for the Jedi to wake up.

Snippet: A Galaxy Away From Home

A bit from the same piece that has this snippet. Garak wasn’t so lucky as Julian. Still unedited, and the parts with Garak are even more something that I’m intending to not publish until I’ve had a chance to do some research and probably massive editing.

AU: A Galaxy Away From Home
Characters: Elim Garak

Warnings: slavery, non-sexual nudity, captivity

Waking up at all had been a surprise. Where he’d woken up, that hadn’t been nearly as much of one – cells are the same, no matter what details changed. The surface beneath him is unpadded and far too broad to be a bench, cold and hard. He can hear the faint sounds of others, likely in the same room as he is. A larger cell, or several that all open onto one central room, and he can’t tell which until he opens his eyes, something he’s not quite willing to do yet.

The air smells faintly antiseptic, under the stench of fear and too many bodies in one area, although it’s still too cold for him to feel comfortable. Even if he were able to ignore the chill of the metal under him. He’s also begun to realize he’s been stripped out of the clothing he’d been wearing when the runabout was attacked. And left without, much to his irritation.

He’s beginning to identify the languages he can hear spoken in whispers around him. Bajoran, and the mix of languages that are used by humans. No familiar Cardassian, no high-pitched Ferengi, nothing that he can identify as something that belongs to some other species. A pity, then, that he had so little to work with, at least among those who weren’t his captors. Whoever his captors were.

Finally opening his eyes, he rolls onto his side toward the sound, to see what he can. It’s a large room, more a warehouse than anything else, with no sign of anyone beyond the humans and bajorans he expects from the languages he hears. And, from the pointed ears of one small group crouched in a corner, either vulcuns or romulans. He’s more inclined to think vulcuns, but there’s always the chance he’s mistaken.

No one appears to have anything more in the way of clothing than he does, something he’s sure is to meant degrade them. And there’s no sign of a way out, at least not visible from where he is. And he’s not quite willing to ask any of his fellow prisoners if there’s some doorway he can’t see. Not yet.

Snippet: Crossover: MCU/Highlander

My on-again, off-again writing partner was online again yesterday, so we got some writing done. Something new, and an excuse for me to prod at least one of my MCU muses again.

So, have a few hundred words of Loki and Methos. (Not even done a cursory pass of editing, much less any rewriting.)

AU: NOS
Characters: Loki, Methos, mentions of the Avengers
Timeframe: the invasion of Manhattan in Avengers

“It’s been far too long since I last saw you, Loki,” Methos says. "How have you been – and what is the point of all this?“ He waves his free hand at the city whipping by them. Loki is certainly capable of creating chaos solely for the sake of the chaos itself, but his instincts are telling him that there’s a plan somewhere in all this, and he wants to know what it is.

"Has everything been kept that quiet? I didn’t think the mortals had the will to enforce such silence.” Loki brings the bike around after streaking along the street, turning through an arc that lets Methos see the open portal. He hopes it is enough to alert Methos that there are things he cannot say aloud, that he must keep silent on his own ends even as he works to achieve them. It makes it difficult to bring an ally into this who knows what to do, but it is all he can offer.

“Especially not with such would-be heroes!”

Turning to let Methos see those who fight – Thor, the green beast, the soldier with his shield, the woman and the man in red armor who Loki thinks are the only two who might match wits with him. Too, his mortal is down there, playing the hero, the coldly angry victim of a villain’s schemes, and well enough that no one has doubted it yet, but Loki doesn’t know how long that will last.

Methos shakes his head. He can’t help wondering how long it will be before MacLeod puts on a costume and starts playing hero himself. Methos doesn’t understand the impulse, personally. His life is the most precious thing he has, the only thing he won’t leave behind, the one thing he’ll do anything to keep – and his anonymity is a close second. He’s not willing to risk death and exposure for the sake of total strangers – or for the sake of anyone, for that matter.

“They are a little ridiculous,” Methos agrees. "At the moment, however, I’m rather glad of their presence. They’re far better equipped for this fight than the US Army, or any other force Earth would be able to bear against the enemy.“ His smile has no hint of laughter in it. "Since I don’t fancy living in the newest part of some space empire during what’s going to be at least a few centuries of guerilla warfare, I offer you my services – assuming, of course, that you’re trying to get rid of the Chitauri.”

“I brought them here.” Even if the fool creatures thought he’d brought them here as a conquering army, and Thanos had believed Loki to be his not-so-willing general. More fool him, to believe he could so easily hold Loki when Loki has no desire to be leashed. He had chosen the battle ground, and the time. Had made sure those best suited to destroy the army were brought here, with his taunting and his careful jabs.

Snippet: Highlander/Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

A piece of a long fic set in my AU A Galaxy Away From Home (AO3). Unedited first draft that may or may not ever be edited to be a single story to post to AO3.

AU: A Galaxy Away From Home
Characters: Julian Bashir, Matthew McCormick

Julian turns away from the window at a knock on the door, raising his eyebrows a moment. “Come in.” He’s curious who might be on the other side, and how they knew he was awake. If they knew. There’s nothing in the room to suggest there’s any sensors in it at all.

At least whoever it is on the other side might be able to tell him where he is, and how he got there. The plant life outside, while similar to the sort of vegetation seen on other M-class planets, is subtly off from anything that he’s even vaguely familiar with. As if the planet, wherever it is, is not one that’s been charted yet, not by the Federation or any of its allies at least.

Matthew opens the door and steps inside, closing it behind him.

“I’m glad to see you’re awake,” he says, smiling. "No after-effects from being in stasis, I presume?“ Offering a hand, he adds, "I’m Matthew.”

“Julian.” He takes the offered hand, frowning a moment. “Stasis? For how long?” There’s no telling where he is, or how long it’ll take to get a message back to Starfleet about his location and status. If this place has the ability to transmit a message back to them, since even subspace messages take time if the distance is great enough.

“I’m afraid I have no idea,” Matthew admits. "I’m not even entirely sure where we are, except that it’s not the same galaxy in which I started out. The star patterns are too different for that.“

He blinks, not entirely certain what to make of Matthew’s assertation that it’s a new galaxy. "No one’s ever attempted intergalactic travel before. We’re barely able to travel across our own galaxy in a single lifetime.” Being in another galaxy would mean an uncharted planet, and would explain the difference in the plant life. “How is that possible?”

Snippet: Highlander: AU NOS

Have a snippet of what me and my on-again, off-again co-author were working on yesterday.

AU: NOS
Word Count: 1721
Characters: Methos, Zoya Selivestrova, Vlad Tepes

Methos doesn’t usually bother doing undergraduate work for his various degrees. He knows most of the information already, and it’s simple enough to slip himself into a graduate program and get the degree he’s really after that way. This time, however, he’s doing things the long way around. It’s been nearly two hundred years since last he practiced medicine, and almost as long since he took a degree in anything but the softer sciences. He needs the background information again – the chemistry, the biology, the anatomy – all of it made new by two centuries of discovery that have changed the world more than Methos would ever have dreamed possible before it actually happened.

It means letting his hair get a little too long, looking around a little wide-eyed, dressing like one of the children he’s pretending to be. He’s not sure how old he was when he first died, but with care, he can look anywhere from his early twenties to his mid thirties, depending on how he cuts his hair, how he holds himself, the clothes he puts on. Right now, he’s playing as young as he can, so as not to stand out too much from the children all around him.

Fortunately, the university he’s chosen doesn’t require its undergraduates to live on campus. Methos has shared living quarters before, but he isn’t even remotely interested in inhabiting the dormitories. He requires more privacy than that, both to keep his sanity and to hide his weapons. Instead, he’s found himself a loft in one of the more bohemian parts of the city, where the rent is reasonable and crime is relatively low. It’s only ten blocks from campus, it suits him perfectly, and he wishes he were there right now.

If he were, he wouldn’t be looking around for a doorway to duck into while the dual signature of two approaching Immortals prickles uncomfortably along the back of his neck. When he catches a glimpse of them, he’s tempted to run. It can’t be coincidence that they’ve stumbled across him. Methos doesn’t believe in that sort of coincidence, especially in this case.

The woman was Silas’s student once – and the man was Kronos’s. Even if by some miracle they’re not here for him, it’s ominous to see the

pair of them together – and now that the first rush of adrenaline has passed, Methos is cataloguing details that suggest that perhaps the miraculous is possible after all. Both of them are dressed to blend in, just as he is, and both are carrying books. It’s not cool enough yet for long coats to pass without calling undue attention to themselves, so Methos is limited to a gun at the small of his back, a second at his ankle, and a knife up his sleeve that’s been carefully smeared with poison. Hopefully, he won’t have to use any of it.

Zoya had been reluctant to leave the forest her papa had once called home, but Vlad is one of the few people she’s willing to leave it for. Especially since he’s paying for the entire experience, including the off-campus apartment with studio space nearby they can use for sparring. Shared, but neither has really lived a life where privacy is a given, and with each having their own bedroom, the rest doesn’t matter.

The feeling of another Immortal crawling over her skin makes Zoya tighten her grip on her books, wishing she’d been able to carry more than the small hand-ax she has secured under her backpack and the knife in her boot.

Beside her, Vlad makes a small noise of irritation, and shifts his books to the arm closer to her. The knife in his hand looks like barely anything, but Zoya has little doubt it’s effective against all but the oldest Immortals, and perhaps even them. They don’t need to have a disruption now, when they’re just settling into new lives.

“If whoever it is causes trouble, I’d rather sacrifice Ivan than you, my friend.” Vlad keeps his voice low so they’re not overheard, and Zoya lets a small smile curl her lips.

“Better to take care of things permanently and not sacrifice either of our lives, if they intend to make a Challenge.” Zoya has no qualms about throwing the rules about such things being one on one out the window if it means getting rid of a head-hunter. The only rule any of her elders have seen as sacrosanct is that about fighting on Holy Ground, after all.

Vlad chuckles, and tilts his head, even as he’s looking around. Trying to find the other Immortal just as she is, and both hoping the other will be reasonable.

They haven’t spotted him yet, and Methos thinks fast. He badly needs to find out why they’re here. If they’ve come for him, it will be time to discreetly exit, stage left. If, on the other hand, they’re carrying books for more than the sake of blending in, they might not be interested in trouble. In that case, it’s best to come across as harmless, young, nothing that would tempt anyone who wasn’t already headhunting. All of this flashes through his mind in a split second, and Methos lets his eyes widen, lets himself look around nervously. They spot him just as his glance falls on them a second time, and with a visible attempt at steeling himself and one last glance around, Methos squares his shoulders and crosses the square to meet them.

“I’m not interested in anything but my classes,” he says once he reaches them. “If you don’t come after me, I’ll extend you the same courtesy.”

The first words out of the other Immortal’s mouth are reassuring, though Zoya isn’t entirely certain she can take them at face value yet. The face is as unfamiliar as the quickening, and not everyone is blunt or obvious about their headhunting.

“We are only here to learn.” Vlad answers for them both, and Zoya can see he’s already returned his knife to the sheath in his sleeve. “I am Ivan Viovode, my friend is Zoya Silasdottir. What is your name?”

Zoya knows it’s unlikely the other Immortal will think there’s anything important to the surname she’s taken for this lifetime, but then, there’s unlikely to be many who would. Not as young as this one gives the impression of being.

“Alex. Alex Dawson.” Joe, now retired, had been good enough to allow Methos to list him as the father for Methos’s current identity. It gave Alex an added layer of security just in case someone came looking. Methos didn’t have anyone particular in mind, but then, it never hurts to take extra precautions and quite frequently hurts not to. He gives Ivan and Zoya a slightly nervous smile. “It’s nice to meet you both.” He doesn’t offer to shake hands. “You’re both enrolled here, then? What are you studying?”

“Why else would we be here?” Zoya shrugs, glancing around the square to keep an eye out for anyone watching them. Or any other possible danger. “And I learn what they offer to teach. It doesn’t matter, so long as the money is there to afford it.”

“Which it will be for as long as you want, ursulețul.” Vlad smiles a little, studying Alex. “I am refreshing my knowledge of computers; it changes so swiftly that sometimes it is good to catch up in a place like this, rather than in the world.”

Zoya doubts he’s here simply for the sake of learning in a school – but she knows that a college campus is a good place to hide, when establishing a new life. No one really looks to anything before that, these days, especially if one has a good degree.

“I’m pre-med.” Methos shrugs. “I thought about taking computer science instead, but there’s just something about the thought of being a doctor that appeals to me. Maybe it’s because I know I’m going to end up killing people someday. It sort of balances the scale, I suppose.”

“Even we die, whether or not you chose to take anyone’s head.” Zoya shrugs, and tilts her head toward the building she and Vlad had been walking to before running into Alex. “We should get to class. If you want to talk later, we have a studio a few blocks from campus. A better place to talk than a coffee shop where you have too many curious ears.”

“I should get going too,” Methos admits. The square is starting to empty as most of the students make their way into one of the buildings. “It was a pleasure to meet you; I’m sure we’ll run into one another again.” He doesn’t reference Zoya’s invitation, either to accept it or to decline; instead, he turns on his heel and hurries off. He hasn’t decided yet whether or not he’s going to associate with them. Were Kronos and Silas still alive, he’d likely have disappeared, just in case the former decided to stop by. Now, though, there’s really no way as things stand for them to tie him to their teachers at all, much less to figure out that he was responsible for their deaths, or who he really is. That said, it might be best to cultivate a relationship with them. The more Immortals with Immortal friends, the less hold the Game will have over them. That alone is almost enough to make up Methos’s mind. He has many regrets, but allowing the Game to spread beyond himself and his brothers is one of his greatest.

Wrenching his thoughts away from it with an effort, Methos refocuses his attention on the here and now. He doesn’t have to make up his mind about Ivan and Zoya right away, but he will have to do it soon. Theirs is not a large university.

Zoya shifts her books to her other arm as Vlad does the same, and to most, it would look like friends or more-than-friends just holding hands. It’s easier to talk without having to use voices this way, tapping out words and phrases in the short-hand they’ve used over the last two decades. Alex is interesting, and it would be nice to have another Immortal who they don’t have to watch their backs around.

Snippet: Tolkien: Flame of Durin: Burning Bright

Because I did get words yesterday afternoon, so there is a snippet for today.

AU: Flame of Durin
Story: Burning Bright
Chapter 4, Scene 2

Characters: Ráva, Thorin Oakenshield, Fíli

He has scarce a day to rest after returning, taking the time to listen to the mountain, before he is expected to be present for Thorin’s afternoon audiences. That it begins with a brief report of an orc spotted on Ravenhill – a lone orc is improbable, and like to be only bait for a trap – makes Ráva’s lips twitch with frustrated amusement. It is tempting to offer his assistance, but he cannot simply leave, for all that he wishes nothing to do with the games of politics.

A runner comes from Dáin, bringing with them pieces of armor that make him think of whispery shadows and winter chill. Danger beyond the black lacquer and spikes that give gauntlets, vambraces, and helm an orcish flair. There is something almost familiar in the rattling feathers of the helm, and the shape of it that is unlike any orc helm he’s seen before.

Movement draws his attention away from the pieces laid out, to see where Fíli has taken a step closer to Thorin, a troubled frown on his face.

“Uncle.” Fíli’s voice is barely loud enough for Ráva to hear, and he thinks he would not hear it if he hadn’t stepped closer to Thorin himself. “Something is… wrong with those armor pieces.”

No one else has voiced such, but Ráva can see the frowns and worry from all of them, speaking to the depths of the darkness that rolls off the pieces of armor. The helm is the worst of them, but it is only by a small margin that it is.

“Yes, very wrong.” Thorin’s words hold satisfaction, a small pride that Fíli is able to see there is more than just the spiked and blackened appearance to the armor to speak of ill intent. “It is well you perceive it.”

Ráva takes another step closer to Thorin, settling himself in his favored place at Thorin’s feet as if the afternoon were over and there were none but friends about. Firmly between Thorin and the table – between the princes and the table, as well – as deeply ingrained instincts scream he must not stand aside here, even if Thorin might wish him to. “There is something familiar, but not, about them. Like childhood nightmares half-remembered.”

He draws a breath, resting one hand flat on the floor as he unearths memories he has rarely needed. Weaving starlight and adamant in a manner he has rarely done, as a shield wall, protecting more than himself without preventing the reach of those behind it to what he defends from. Protecting so that others may unmake what needs destroyed, or do what they will otherwise.

bedlamsbard:

Didn’t make wordcount today – I was out for part of the day (at the county fair with my family; I am now too city to be particularly excited by it but too country to find it exotic and/or quaint), and then spent four hours on today’s AotC rewatch. (It’s a 2.5 hour movie, so that took…skill…this is why I can’t do movies, I have to keep taking breaks because my attention span can’t sustain that much time.)

I need to actually figure out what’s going on in this chapter of Backbone so I can write it without wandering off.

Snippet from Ahsoka 22.

Ahsoka sighed and shifted from her meditative posture into a
more comfortable position, lifting a hand for the datapad sitting on the
opposite side of the room. It came
floating over to her and she swiped her thumb over it to unlock it, frowning at
the results. She had been hoping for a
response on the HoloNet dead drop she and Barriss used to communicate with each
other, but there was nothing to see except for her own carefully coded message.

Is she…dead?
Ahsoka wondered, sitting back on her heels.
That had always been a danger.
Inquisitors didn’t have particularly long lifespans; the vids that
Barriss had given her of Caleb Dume’s training at the Crucible had made it
clear that that extended to Mustafar as well as the field. Something had happened there; that much
Ahsoka had been able to determine by carefully combing through all Imperial
transmissions from the past thirty-six hours.
Whatever that something had been, it had involved casualties; Ahsoka had
also found the hasty orders for the deployment of the Imperious, Moff Ssaria’s personal star destroyer. But no one seemed to know exactly what had
happened there.

Snippet: Crossover: X-Men/Burn Notice

An older snippet, mostly because while going through things to deal with them, this made me giggle. I may or may not finish this and clean it up for AO3. Have to decide what to do with the other story in the AU first.

AU: Emily: Wild Child
Word Count: 2918
Characters: Victor Creed | Sabretooth, Michael Westen

Warnings: Violence, medical torture, hallucinations

Victor figures he owes Michael Westen a rescue. Or a clean death.

The first sign Michael has that something is about to change is the sudden plunge into darkness. In the – month? months? he’s no longer sure – but in all of that time, since he first woke up in this white, sterile cell, the lights have burned constantly. Darkness is a sign, darkness means change, and Michael gets to his feet, putting his back against the wall next to his cell door.

They don’t call it a cell, of course. Officially, he’s here voluntarily, on assignment for the government he’s served all of his adult life. The reality is something else again. They haven’t broken him, but only because they’re not trying. Not one of the doctors or nurses or silent orderlies – all the staff is clearly military, but Michael’s own background couldn’t matter less to them – has once looked at him, once spoken to him (save to issue commands); has once given him any indication that they see him as a fellow human being. No one has told him what they’re trying to do to him, either.

Instead, it’s been one injection after another, some that send his mind chasing around in surreal circles, some that leave him unable to move but wide awake, others that plunge him into exitless dreams. Some of them don’t seem to do anything at all. One of them has shut down the part of his mind that lets him reach past normal human boundaries, keeps him trapped in his own skin. The cumulative effect leaves him unsure as to how much of what he sees is reality. He knows, though, in the same way that he knows he’s no longer entirely sane, that he’s not imagining the darkness.

He waits next to the door for it to open, letting his eyes adjust to the blackness and ignoring Larry, who’s painting vivid pictures of what he can do to them all, once he gets out. He knows Larry isn’t real, because he can see him despite the darkness, but he wishes it were otherwise. He’s in the mood to kill people, and Larry has always been very good at helping him with that.

Victor moves through the pitch-dark corridors with the ease and confidence he hasn’t had since he was last in a facility like this. He normally wouldn’t bother with a mutant who got caught up in this, but the information he’s gotten on Michael means he won’t leave him here. No matter that Victor will never really have a chance to see his niece unless she’s away from the X-Men, she’s still family, and he owes Michael for that.

That Michael is a former spy, and a good operative doesn’t hurt – Victor could use a steady partner with what he does, rather than a series of temporary ones, including the current one. She’d have been temporary anyway, as much as she still hates him and who he worked for when they first met.

Pushing open the door to the cell the computer provided as the one Michael’s in, Victor waits in the hallway. “Hope they haven’t wrecked your mind entirely yet, Weston. Takes more time than it’s worth to get it back from this.”

Being addressed by name is as unexpected as the darkness had been. The voice is vaguely familiar, but Michael doesn’t think it belongs to any of the men and women who have been his tormentors since his arrival.

“It’s a trap,” Larry says, but Larry never trusts anyone, even when he is real. Michael ignores him.

“Who’s out there?” he calls. Only then does it occur to him that they might not be real either. He reaches a cautious hand out to check that the door is actually open. It is, which is no guarantee that the speaker is real, but does seem to suggest as much.

Chuckling, Victor grins even though he knows Michael can’t see it in the dark. “The cavalry, Weston. Do you want out or not?” If Weston is too far gone to want to leave, he’ll let them finish dissecting his mind at their leisure while he gets the hell out of Dodge. No way is he sticking around for them to rip his mind apart again.

“Of course I want out of here.” Michael flips Larry the bird and steps out of the cell. It’s too dark for him to see more than the vague outlines of things, which also would suggest that the self-appointed cavalry is real. He could see Larry just fine, even in the dark, and suspects that he still could, if he looked back into the cell.

“I’m afraid they didn’t provide me with a floor plan, so you’ll have to lead.” He’s almost afraid to reach out, afraid he’ll reach right through the shape in front of him, but the shoulder under his hand is reassuringly solid. "I don’t suppose you brought an extra gun?“ He’s still head-blind, his extra senses shut down so effectively he’s not sure they’re even still there.

"I don’t use guns much anymore.” Victor shrugs, not trying to dislodge the hand on his shoulder, before reaching to the holster with the weapon he had brought with him. “Figment thought you’d appreciate this, though. Don’t know what she made up for you, just that it works.” He assumes it works, as everything else she’s made works. Much to his annoyance sometimes. “Point and pull the trigger. She says she made it impossible to point at yourself by accident.”

Having a weapon in his hand settles some of the worst of Michael’s unease, even if he isn’t entirely sure what to expect when he fires it. The slight edge of calm that it provides lets him pull his scattered thoughts back into some semblance of order, and his rescuer’s comment about guns finally allows him to place the voice.

“Creed?” Only training keeps him from stopping in his tracks out of sheer surprise. Victor Creed is one of the last people on earth that Michael would have expected to find risking his own liberty for anyone else’s, much less for someone he’d done one op with almost fifteen years ago. "What the hell are you doing here? And don’t say rescuing me; you know what I’m asking.“

Victor snorts, grinning again in the dark. "Jimmy’s girl.” It’s all the answer he’s going to give Michael on that score until he knows just how far they got on making him into a nice little puppet. Or, the more likely outcome as far as he’s concerned, into a mindless, violent idiot. And nevermind if they think they’ve improved their technique. “Don’t point that thing at me, either. Figment doesn’t much like me, and I don’t want to know if that toy she made for you can kill me.”

Larry has apparently decided to stay behind in the cell, much to Michael’s relief. “I’m drugged and a little crazy, not brain damaged. I haven’t forgotten basic weapons safety.” There’s a note in Victor’s voice that *really* makes Michael want to shoot someone else with it, though, just to see what it does. "Who’s Figment?“

"Girl Styker wanted back in the seventies. Still hates me. Makes things with her mind.” Given the plans and what something’s supposed to do – nevermind if it’s beyond current technology or not – and she can create anything. It’s one of the reasons he went to her for toys for this mission. “Gave me what I needed to get you out.” Mostly so he’d stop harassing her, but he’s not bothered about how he gets what he needs.

“And just what is his charity – and hers – going to cost you?”

Michael turns sharply, but it’s just his dad, long dead and still running his mouth. Michael turns back around and keeps going. He hadn’t heard his dad coming up behind them, which makes sense but is still unsettling. He’ll be glad when the drugs wear off, and the worst of the hallucinations subside.

“Shut up,” he mutters, hopefully too quietly for Victor to hear. "Go crawl back into that bottle you liked so much.“ His dad scowls at him, but vanishes. Michael smiles in grim satisfaction. Louder, he asks, "How sure are you that it won’t explode when I pull the trigger?”

“What she makes works. If she made it for you, it isn’t going to explode.” If she’d made it for Victor, it wouldn’t even have come into the building with him, as he’s pretty certain it would in that case. Figment might let him bully her into making things sometimes, but it doesn’t mean he can trust anything he can’t be sure is to be used by or on the behalf of someone else. “Who’s supposed to crawl back into a bottle?”

“You have unpleasantly sharp ears,” Michael says. In the darkness next to him, the mass grave he and Sam had stumbled across in Kosovo yawns threateningly, then flickers closed again. Closing his eyes only makes the visions more intense, if this is the same thing they’ve been giving him, so he keeps them open. Besides, he won’t be able to see, if they ever find the exit. Despite Victor’s shoulder, still solid and real under his hand, he’s beginning to wonder if maybe he isn’t imagining all of this, isn’t walking in circles in his cell with his eyes closed, talking to himself. The idea is appalling enough that he answers Victor’s question, just to reassure himself that it isn’t real. "No one. I’ve – they’ve been pumping me full of drugs. It makes for some pretty vivid hallucinations.“

"I remember those.” They hadn’t lasted very long, but then, with Victor, nothing they did lasted very long except the damage they did to his mind. Apparently it takes a bloody long time for brain damage to heal – and some of it never heals at all. There are gaps in his memory that he’s pretty sure are due to physical damage rather than chemical damage. “They try cutting your head open yet?”

Michael shudders. "Not yet. Not physically, anyway. They used the pharmacy instead. Filled my head with all kinds of shadows.“ He realizes abruptly that he sounds less than sane, and runs his next sentence carefully through his head before speaking. "I can tell, most of the time, what’s real and what isn’t.” Though now that he’s no longer in the sterile sameness of the rooms, he’s not sure whether or not that’s going to hold true. It’s easy to know whether or not you’re hallucinating when nothing else ever changes.

Victor nods, turning down the corridor that’s their way out. “That’s when you’d have needed an executioner instead of cavalry. Watch out for bodies.” There were a couple guards that got in his way. Someone’s going to have to possess a strong stomach to clean these halls later.

“I’m just glad they stuck with the drugs.” Michael can see faint light now, and it makes his throat tighten, his eyes prickle with relief. His voice is a little rough when he adds, “I don’t knit back together as easily as you do.”

“Only know three people who do.” With two of them related, and the third having their genetics spliced into his, it really makes him think it’s not a mutation that’ll come up in others. Not a bad thing, between the crazy that’s Wade, the half-wild nature of Jimmy’s girl, and his own and Jimmy’s broken minds and violent instincts. Even if he and Jimmy took two different approaches to the whole mess.

“Which makes it a good thing that they were so careful. Physically, anyway.” The first breath of fresh air from the outside world seems to go all the way to Michael’s bones. When he realizes that his grip has tightened on Creed’s shoulder, he makes himself let go. There’s a lurching moment of disorientation, and the awful feeling that he’s somehow insubstantial, that he’ll blow away like so much dust when the breeze hits him, but he clenches his teeth and forces himself to ignore it. "What happens now? This wasn’t some rogue group playing games. I received orders to report here, which means that they’ll be looking for me. And for you, since you got me out.“ His mouth tightens unhappily. "As much as I hate to admit it, I’m in no fit state – I’m still doped to the gills, and god knows what else they’ve done to me. If you want to split up, I need to find someone else to watch my back before we do.”

“Not done yet.” Victor herds Michael toward a sports car that’s parked a few hundred feet from the door they’ve just come out of. “They have to figure out you’re not dead before they can look for you.”

There’s something to be said about the fact Figment liked to lob explosives at him. Victor fishes a remote out of his pocket as he slides into the driver’s seat of the car, starting the engine before he flicks the switch on the remote. There’s a rumble from the compound as he accelerates away, cursing at the roar that grows out of that rumble, and the shock wave he knows will be coming. Next time he buys his explosives on the black market like any sane mercenary.

The explosion rattles Michael’s teeth in his skull, and makes his ears ring with sudden, sharp pain. When he puts his hands to them, the right one is bleeding a little bit. He doesn’t even try to fight the laughter that rises up from his chest. If it sounds a little insane, so be it.

“Tell me they’re all dead,” he says, ignoring the little voice that tells him he shouldn’t be so dreadfully eager for confirmation.

“Her devices work.” Sometime better than she bothers to warn him, but they work. Which is why he doesn’t always do something sane, and buy from arms dealers who don’t want him dead. Or maybe it’s just what the government did to his mind when they cut his head open and sliced into his brain, making him pull stunts like trusting Figment not to attempt to kill him this time, or Wade to shut the hell up on a job. “It’ll take weeks or months before they can confirm your body’s not in your cell.”

Michael’s first thought is of the damage he can do in those weeks, before they find him and take him down. It’s not a sane thought, or one he’d have had before. The question is whether it was inspired by the psychological damage they’d inflicted on him, or something else. Until he finds out what they pumped into his system, and what it was designed to do, he’ll have to be even more self-controlled than usual. And God only knows what will happen when the drugs keeping his mutation in check wear off. He bleeds emotion when he can’t keep his shields up, and until he’s a little more sane, that has the potential to be a very bad thing.

“Would she be able to make something that would tell me what’s in my bloodstream? Or do you know a doctor I can trust to do the same?”

“Haven’t trusted doctors in a long time.” He hadn’t even really trusted the one who’d fished him out of the bay after the mess with Magneto, and patched his mind back together. “Might know one who’d have an idea how to help fix you, though. After we pay a little visit to Figment.”

“I don’t need help, so much as an idea of what to expect,” Michael says tightly. The laughter from the back seat is anything but reassuring, and his glance over his shoulder is reflexive rather than deliberate. The FSB agent sitting there has been dead for almost five years now, but the bullet hole in his forehead doesn’t seem to be inconveniencing him very much. Michael snarls a curse at him in Russian and faces forward again.

“They want a perfectly controllable mutant soldier.” Victor shrugs. “Started with Wade, and his mind’s more broken than mine was. Fucked with my head. Now you. All they do is make you crazy and forget they can’t actually control you.”

“Crazy can take all kinds of shapes,” Michael points out. "If I’m going to spend the rest of my life seeing ghosts, I’d like to know ahead of time.“ He ignores Nikolai, who’s pointing out in Russian that he’s always been a little less than stable. "Is this doctor any good?”

“Patched my mind back together after a decade of being shattered beyond my own ability to heal.” Could put Jimmy’s mind back together, he expects, if Jimmy would ever bother to trust him for five minutes and meet the doctor. “Good enough.”

Michael nods. Victor’s a lot saner now than he was the last time they’d encountered one another. It’s almost as if they’ve switched, an idea that makes Michael laugh briefly. When he glances in the rearview mirror, Nikolai isn’t gone, but he is dead again, which is at least a step in the right direction.

“We’re going to see Figment now?” he asks. That makes him want to laugh again, but he doesn’t. He’s already seeing figments of his imagination; the name is just kind of ironic. "I never got to use the weapon she made for me.“

"Figment first, doctor later. Further to drive to get to the doctor than to Figment.”