This is unlike anything else I've written, and I'm not sure I really ought to put it up here. With some encouragement I did it anyway though. ;) It's, umm, quite a bit more violent. However, Drake is quite violent, especially here, and there's a lot of weirdness. Just a warning, so if you don't want to read that sort of stuff, then leave. Click the big red X. Go and find some light reading. Sam & Drake seems to be rare, even for slash, and that's a shame. I don't mean romance, exactly, but just stuff based off of the two of them is hard to find, even though their hate-hate relationship was made very clear in the books. Has some spoilers from Hunger and Lies. Enjoy!
He hit the ground running. He had to stay at least two yards ahead of his pursuer, or he'd get hit by the other boy's snapping whip hand as it slashed out behind him. Those hits, while not usually causing lasting damage, still hurt terribly when one had the misfortune to meet the boy. Sam didn't know why Drake was chasing him, or hoped he didn't, but he'd resolved to play tag with the sadist. He couldn't kill them. He just hoped it wouldn't cost him his life to do so. At least Drake hadn't run after Edilio.
The two of them had been checking out a new type of mushroom known to be poisonous, as the previous eater had crudely and basically described its appearance to Dahra as she died, curled over her belly from the cramps with angry red sores on her arms. She might have just been allergic, but no one was taking any chances. The plaza had been quickly filling up with bodies and graves, its once-lush grasses now choked with the stench of death. How Drake usually stank. Drake. Sam glanced behind him. The boy was still there, and gaining. Surfing does not develop the same muscles as running uses, as Sam quickly found out. Still he pushed on, if a bit grimly. Edilio had to have gotten to the town by now. They had come by car, in Edilio's Jeep. The only question was whether they had resolved to stand and fight or to flight.
Sam hoped it was the latter. He didn't want anyone else to be hurt by his failure to kill Drake while he had the chance to. Kill Drake. It still struck him hard that he, a fifteen year old boy, was seriously thinking of killing someone. It scared him, but it was Drake this time and Drake needed to die. If anyone could kill him now, that is. Him alone.
He'd been running around in circles, trying to buy Edilio more time and was steadily losing ground. Not a lot, but Drake had been in a better condition to run than him, and it showed. Just then, he felt the first flick from Drake's snapping whip hand. He hissed as the tip flicked his ear, hard. Sam sped up, pumping his legs hard, trying to lead Drake into the desert. Or maybe just trying to get away. Panic welled up from his core. Fear, righteous anger, humiliation, and hate accompanied it. Sam bit his lip, biting back the tears as he willed the emotions to pumping his legs and keeping himself going. He had read somewhere before the FAYZ that exercising was good for anger management. The memory brought bitterness, which Sam added to his cauldron of emotion.
Drake wasn't falling for it. A bolt of pleasure washed through him as Sam yelped with pain. A little bit of the whip was in range now, despite Sam's desperate efforts, and it had just struck Sam's shoulder and swept against his back. The welt probably wouldn't show, not that one, but soon he'd be close enough to make some real marks on the boy. For now, though, he just focused on whipping Sam's left side, or whatever he could reach. They had been running across the highway, which was cooling in the shade of night. It was maybe three miles to Perdido Beach and the ground was hilly. Drake maneuvered Sam, who was just trying not to get hit, back onto the black pavement of the highway as they raced to town.
Sam's brain, unfortunately, wasn't running as quickly as his legs were. They were beginning to tire and his breath was coming short. He had to go to the town, yes, but what then? What if they had stood to fight? Then he'd be forswearing half a dozen oaths he had made to himself and Astrid's God if he let Drake near the children that he was supposed to protect. He shook off the mental paralysis and had a lightbulb of an idea. No, he wouldn't fight him here, where Drake had every advantage. He would lead Drake to the beach, with it's comfortable loose sand and ocean waters. Even as the one being chased, he could still maneuver Drake onto ground that was advantageous to him. It was the only half-chance he had.
All too quickly, they had reached the town. Drake was breathing as hard as Sam and had dropped back so that he was just in range in case Sam got any ideas. Sam angled for the beach and Drake followed, straggling further behind since he was unused to loose sand. Partway through the beach, Sam stopped. They had been kicking up globs of sand, and it was getting in his eyes. He surveyed the surroundings quickly as Drake caught up and stopped. Sam had his hands up and Drake had his whip out.
They stayed like that for a few seconds before Drake started to circle Sam, whip snapping sensuously as he stepped. Sam kept his hands up and pointed in Drake's direction, his feet stayed rooted, and he twisted his body as Drake came around his back. That was invariably better and worse-Drake couldn't see the stone carved face Sam had come up with to hide his terror from him, but he also couldn't see what Drake was doing. The whip was snapping closer to his feet now, dangerously close. There didn't seem to be anyone in the town, so that was a relief. They'd be at the edge of the zeke fields, some passing the time by planting seeds and harvesting food, placating the zekes with Duck's blue bats. They'd be out of the way. Safe from the monster that called himself Drake Merwin, while Sam faced him alone, as was the intent. His, anyway. When they had come up with the plan, some of his friends had argued vehemently against that.
Brianna might have been scared of Drake, but she wasn't going to let him face him alone. Neither were Dekka or Edilio. Eventually they had seen reason. Caine had pointed out that Sam was the only one with the power to touch Drake, whatever the rest may be able to do to slow him. His argument was weakened by the fact that he was one of the ones who could do something and wanted to help, or at least hurt Drake, and that he was up against Dekka, another such. Still, after much grumbling, people were resigned to defend the others. Besides, if anyone could take care of themself in a fight, it was Samuel Temple.
It was getting dark out, Sam realized. He thought Light. and a glow appeared from his palms. It hung in the air beside him, illuminating things weirdly and creating weird shadows. It also showed the sick look of Drake's face. Insane sadist was definitely in control now. That fear was confirmed as Sam felt the tentacle that was Drake's whip hit his legs. Then it wrapped around his right one and squeezed.
It was done moving upwards; it had come just past Sam's knee. A burst of light shot from the hands of the off-balance boy and Drake's arm was once again a stump. Drake just glared at Sam, who was now on the ground because the sudden weight of the tentacle had overbalanced him too far. Unfortunately, his regeneration had gotten faster so that as soon as Sam had sat up and disentangled his leg, Drake was standing over him with a whip hand that, barely seconds later, hit Sam in the face.
Sam fell back onto the sand, one leg twisted painfully underneath him. His eyes watered and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. That would just give Drake what he wanted, so he couldn't scream. Unfortunately for him, it also meant that Drake would try to force it out of him. The whip bit into his side and sent him rolling. He curled up into a ball and looked at Drake. He was in the darkness now, and Drake was by the light. Sam slowly stood up, closing his eyes momentarily against the harsh madness and smugness of his opponent.
He needed a plan. He couldn't use his powers unless he wanted to be seen. Oh, man, how he wished he had Hunter's microwave hands right now! His blowtorch ones would have to do. He just needed a clean shot. It might or might not kill Drake, but it was the best chance he'd have. Drake wouldn't hesitate to kill Sam. Or anyone else for that matter. That meant he was too dangerous to let live.
Sam raised his hands and let loose a bolt of light. It illuminated his face for the briefest of moments. Drake jumped away and the killer light flew wide. His face contorted as the whip snapped out, striking Sam's torso, his legs, his face, and even his back and everything else as eventually he got pushed over. It hit again and again. And boy, did it hurt. But not as much as it could, Sam realized with a flash. Drake wasn't trying to kill him! Why? He sat there, unable to put up his hands for the pain of possibly broken elbows and flashing whip to increase the pain past the threshold at which Sam would pass out; he was completely unable to defend himself from a killing strike or suffocation. Why didn't Drake take advantage of that?
Sam somehow managed to get his hands up while Drake was distracted with hurting him and blew off the whip hand again. While it regrew, Sam mustered up the courage to sit up. His bottom ached from the beating. When he looked up, Drake's arm was back, intimidating him. Wide eyes met narrow ones as Drake held the whip just in front of him, ready to strike. The light illuminated the bright red welts covering Sam, who only croaked "Why?" The same question he'd asked every time and not gotten an answer for. Why him? Why now? Why so many things.
Drake was looking taken aback, though Sam knew that was an act. "Why?" He repeated, showing teeth. "It's fun to see you squirm in pain. It's even more amusing when I'm the one that caused it. Besides," he said, brandishing the whip and grinning savagely "We all know you like it, Sammy." The whip struck out at Sam again, connecting between his ribs and hips, lifting him off the ground only to fall sprawling onto the sand.
For a moment Sam just lay there, beaten and stunned, even more stunned because he had actually gotten an answer from the murderer. The beach sand was in his eyes, his nose, sticking to his lips and and his hair and his toes and every part in between. He gasped, winded from the fall and choked by the sand. His heartbeat was racing a mile a minute. Adrenaline had finally decided to kick in, for all the good that was doing. Drake's face and his wicked, wicked whip of a tentacle arm appeared in the haze of dusty stand above him, partly illuminated by the ball of light. It was full dark now, and the moon was small so it was quite dark without the light. He created another as the first went out, crushed by the Darkness's presence in Drake. It silhouetted the leering boy, the predator who looked down at its prey. Him.
Then he actually heard what Drake had said in its entirety. He liked it? What the heck? He'd rather be just about anywhere but here right now. Gritting his teeth, he forced his aching limbs to move, to sit up. He managed to get to his knees, so he sat back on them. How had he gotten to be in this state so quickly? He was one of the most powerful freaks in the FAYZ, and he had the advantage of terrain. If that was even an advantage anymore, he thought wryly as he spit sand. Drake turned back to him when the sound of spitting reached his ears. He grinned again and raised his whip. Sam put up one hand, needing the other for balance.
Sam moved first, the green white beam of light shooting from his upright hand. Drake jerked aside and the light hit his 'human' arm. It began to regenerate, but at a much more sedate pace than his whip hand's seconds. Sam didn't have time to ponder Drake's regeneration habits because it was now his turn to do the talking. Sam moved his hand to cover his face, closed his eyes, and turned away from the boy as the whip started to swing. It crashed into his hand like a jackhammer would through a rat stupid enough to get in its way, and Sam felt the skin tear and blood start to flow. He lost his balance, but didn't get up. He was more concerned with staunching the blood flow.
He was at Drake's mercy. Sam leaned upwards and squinted with one eye, the other closed and crusted with bloodstained sand. A bolt of light flashed out of the upraised hand, but it bounced harmlessly away. His perception of depth and distance was off. Way off. Drake just laughed. It was good entertainment. But it was maddening, sort of. If Sam, who was among the most powerful and renowned for his heroism and fighting prowess and the fact that the only idea of how to kill Drake centered around him was taken down this easily, then there would be little actual fight in anyone else. Ah, no matter. Entertainment was entertainment after all. He'd savor Sam's pain while he endured. Still, hurting Sam gave him a rush that he'd never felt before, except that one time at the power plant. Ah, that'd been fun. Only now killing Sam was not his goal. Pain was. The rush was. Death would end all that wonderfulness.
Drake was hooked. Addicted to the rush that hurting Sam gave him. Seeing Sam squirm, hearing him cry out in pain as the whip flashed down, and knowing that he, the kid with the gun, the kid with the whip hand, the kid with the power of God and the Darkness was creating that pain. That he created those stripes, and the scars from the earliest sessions before he learned to control his strength in a way to make the strokes painful but not scarring. After all, he could always scar him if he wanted to. The sensation was exquisite. So Sam had to like it. Otherwise he'd just have taken his own life by now. The Council had made it clear-he was unnecessary as a leader. They could lead, Caine could lead, the kids could take care of themselves. Sam could lead too, but there were so many leaders now, and barely no one was looking for Sammy boy now. So Sam just had to be the masochist he thought he was to still be around, still be where Drake could take a piece off of him.
Sam's world swam with the pain of it all. Yes, he was unnecessary. People went to the Council as a whole or Albert and Astrid in particular unfailingly now. People trusted Caine to a degree, having proven himself several times in battle in their defense. Drake had hurt him before, sure. He took it to start with because his self-sacrificing nature compelled him to take the pain if it meant sparing the lives, sanity, and skin of other kids in Perdido Beach. They went to him less and less now, and he only heard of the important things by rumor, unless it affected him personally, which he dreaded. Nothing good ever did. Then he began to wonder when Drake's next beating would be, if he was beating up on someone else in the meanwhile. They were infrequent, true, but that was thankful. Never before had it occurred to him that maybe he was anticipating it. Was he?
No he couldn't be. Sure, Drake hadn't gone and broke him again, this time, like he could have. Drake, with the power of the gaiaphage behind him, could have done anything he wished. Sam had never forgotten the power plant incident. The helplessness of it all as Drake hit him with the horrible whip again and again and Sam had had to stand there and take it, or watch the death of Perdido Beach from a vantage point in the reactor. He would know that it was his fault, that he had doomed the kids to death. While he lived, that was. The helplessness had scoured deeply into his soul. He didn't delude himself into thinking that that was not still part of the reason why he ran from Drake. Yes, Drake had come close at times. It was with things that wouldn't have broken him before the power plant incident, but Sam was scarred and scared, which made that easier because his mental state and self control was that much more delicate. In fact, Sam felt that Drake danced him to that edge more often than not, and there was nothing he could do about it. At least the wounds weren't as bad as those of the incident before. if they had been, Sam would probably be dead.
Tears sprung from Sam's eyes as he choked on the sand still swirling about them. That mad, satisfied, and now familiar glint showed in Drake's pitiless eyes he raised his whip. Sam pressed his wounded hand against his side as he lay, the other hand trying to cover his face. His knees curled up. He tried to make himself as small as possible. He tried to keep his mind on the fact that if it wasn't him it'd be someone else as the whip came down one last time, and the Sam's gritty-sand world pitched into blackness.
It was sunlight when he woke up. Barely. He groaned, not wanting to move. A shock of pain came at his smallest twitch. It wasn't as bad as it had been that time, but it sure as anything wasn't fun. And he was still half asleep, so he wasn't really feeling the worst of it yet. The townspeople had probably slept the night away in shelters they had created near the zeke fields, because no one was near Drake. The light he had created in the darkness of the beating was still there, visible even in the rays of bright morning sun. That's exactly what it was-a beating, not a fight. Sam did all the wrong things for it to be a fight. If it was a fight, why did he run at all? Why did he not just try to mindlessly zap Drake, in hopes of finding someplace where the boy was not invulnerable, his Achilles heel, while knowing in his heart that it didn't exist? Why didn't he scream for backup? The people likely wouldn't have heard him, but who knew?
Drake was gone, obviously. Still, Sam made sure with a quick scan of the beach. Oh, why did he have to choose the beach? The sand stung his welts. His hand had stopped bleeding, but it wasn't looking good. It needed a bandage and some antibiotic, or because he was in the FAYZ, it needed Lana's help. If he could muster up the courage to stand, which wasn't very likely.
Sam felt like crying, so he did. It hurt, it hurt so much. He curled up on the sand on his stomach, head turned towards the direction he hoped help would come from, biting his lip to keep from screaming again. He wasn't used to it, the pain, and he thought never would be. He'd guessed by now that Drake got some sadistic power trip out of hurting Sam. After the incident of the nuclear plant's containment center, Drake had come after Sam a total of four times. Five now, he thought morbidly. There was really nothing he could do to stop the vicious sadist of a teenage boy who had broken him. He lay in the sand, unmoving, listening to the chatter of the Sharp-Talon Seagulls, as they had been dubbed, moaning piteously.
Sam was the only person with the power to stop him. Drake. The power of the killer green white light that sprung from his hands at will. The only fire that burned through him fast enough he could not regenerate and survive. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was why it was Sam. Not even Caine could touch Drake now, not after he and Brittney rose from Brittney's grave. Only Sam. And, although she didn't really appear now, Brittney was there, always there. She was stuck in her own mind now, probably praying to God and begging Sam to kill her again. To kill her and Drake. That was why Sam hadn't already burned Drake into a bucket of ashes and rubbed them into the ground with the soles of his worn sneakers. He couldn't hurt Brittney. It was a circle twisted enough to make a person go insane. Sam ought to know. He'd been there.
It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, it could have been a day or two, but five figures appeared in the distance in the direction Sam happened to be facing. They came closer, faces grim. It was Edilio, two soldiers, Astrid, and Lana. Lana said nothing and knelt beside him, placing her cool hands on his ragingly burning back. Edilio knelt beside him for a moment, looking in Sam's tear-bright eyes, and said "Sorry, man." Then he and his soldiers walked off. They'd be looking to make sure Drake had run off. Astrid sat in the sand beside Sam, barely rustling it. She said nothing, her eyes bright with unshed tears as Sam watched her.
It had happened before, and every confrontation with Drake had ended like this. Astrid bit her lip and stayed quiet, not knowing what to say. Quinn got grim-faced and took him in for the night, refusing to let him go elsewhere. He was probably helping out with the kids by the fields right about now, but that didn't matter because he would surely seek Sam out later. Edilio got Lana, who made no comment as she healed this broken, bloody mess of a teenage boy. It happened over and over again, like a routine. Everyone knew their job and did it without comment, including Sam. No one may have interfered but all watched, cursing their uselessness, as Sam got beaten senseless again and again by the boy they had already hated.
This one wouldn't be the last, Sam was sure. Even so, it was the first in so many ways. It made him think about what was really going on. It made him wonder. Why him? He didn't know. Did Drake like it? Well, obviously yes. Did he? He couldn't answer the question honestly, no longer sure one way or the other. What he did know was that he was anticipating the next fight with his hateful enemy who had somehow just not killed him off. The next beating. He almost craved it now, not being able to do anything else to help anyone. If Drake hurt one less person because of him, it would be a success. He was used to it now, used to the beatings and the gloating smiles of madness. Still, the desire scared him But it placated Drake, who was already lining up his cruel tricks and techniques to decide how to get Sam to scream next time. And scream he would. The image was burned onto the back of his eyelids, and Drake grinned madly with greed as he watched his Sammy through a liberated pair of binoculars.
Soon, he could make Sam's soul his again with the pain he could cause him. Soon.
Soon Sam would be his. No one could stop him from making it so, not even Brittany and especially not the boy himself.
Soon. It would be soon. Drake inexplicably was sure of it, and the Darkness agreed.