Alright, so I finally wrote something after ending Unexpected Consequences. Proof positive that my life isn't over. Yay.

This is a response to one of the poll choices on my profile. It's still open if anyone would like to place a vote or two, for a chance to get a story of their choice up on the archive.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

Chapter One: Down the Rabbit Hole

- o -

As prison hellholes and cages went, solitary confinement in Owl Island Penitentiary was actually fairly decent, Scales thought. Of course, it wouldn't save you from boredom. The deformed smuggler was sitting on the bunk—devoid of any sheets, in case he got the urge to hang himself—staring at the pea-green wall. He was fairly sure that the color was designed to drive people absolutely starkers. The smuggler sighed, thinking about the years of incarceration and boredom he was going to endure, or at least until his public defender could get him out.

If he got to terribly bored, though, he could always try painting the wall red with his own blood or something…

Scales sighed and resisted the urge to beat his head against the wall in frustration. He'd had some fairly length incarcerations before—he quickly quashed the threatened upsurge of childhood memories—but none as dull as this. Effing hell, he was going to lose his mind before long! At this point, Scales was sure he'd very nearly kiss Fleming if that smug bastard came in to talk with him. He was bored out of his skull, and there was no other way to describe it.

Too much longer staring at the wall, and he'd see how red he could make it before that nonce of a guard called the psychiatrists. Wouldn't take much to make them think he'd cracked, actually…

The smuggler sighed and leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. There wasn't much to do in solitary besides sleep or do push-ups, and his arms hurt from the nearly six-hundred reps he'd already done. He supposed he could always ask to do his one hour outside for the so-called "exercise period", but that was nothing to write home about either. Besides that, it was the middle of the night. And he had no one to write to, or who'd accept a letter from him at this point anyways…

He could always bother his public defender in the morning, Scales supposed. He was fairly sure the lawyer was that Faraday bird—the one he'd supposedly set his boys on a few days back. No conclusive proof though; Faraday was a relatively common name in Palm City (thanks to the original clan, which reportedly had twelve male children). The public defender's office was also swamped with enough paperwork to keep the whole city busy for the next millennia. Or until ARK Corporation died.

Scales was about to doze off at that point for sheer lack of stimulation when there was a noise like a gunshot or a firecracker. (He steadfastly refused to think of the third option.) The deformed smuggler jerked upright, suddenly awake and on the alert. Either someone had started a midnight riot, or the guard was so bored that he'd decided target practice was a better way to pass his shift than…well…dating the lovely Rosie. (The guard on the shift before this nipper had disappeared for nearly half an hour; Scales didn't have to guess what he'd actually been doing.)

Scales stood up and strode over to the door, rearing the horrible orange jumpsuit so it settled better around his large frame. The guard—Desoto, or something like that (he was Hispanic, and that was about the extent of Scales' knowledge), looked just as confused as Scales felt. Wasn't quite as good as hiding it, though…

"Wot's the bleedin' point, son?" Scales rumbled, leaning casually against one of the cell's barred walls. (Thus, his cage analogy. The smuggler wasn't sure who'd designed this particular cage, but he was going to pay the man a visit. With a sledge hammer.) "Are you tryin' t' frighten us decent souls, wot want t' get a bit o' sleep?"

He yawned, as if to prove a point. The guard flinched back, no doubt scared by the sight of Scales' teeth. (According to one rumor the smuggler had heard, he could—among other "snake-like" attributes—unhinge his jaw to bite people's heads off. Literally.)

"I…I don't…" Desoto stuttered, holding his rifle closer to his chest. He looked terrified, although it would be a rare sort who'd blame him. Being in such close quarters with a certified nutter, Scales decided as he waited for a coherent response, would make many people uncomfortable. He half-wondered what the Lich's guards did after they got off shift. They probably drank all the alcohol in the battle cruiser, no doubt.

There were three more gunshot-like cracks in rapid succession, followed by an explosion that rocked the wing. Scales gave a yell of surprise as he was knocked off his feet and into the rather solid cot.

Desoto fell to the ground, stunned. He reached blindly for his radio and began depressing the red call button as fast as he could. Why wasn't anyone coming? Hadn't they heard the explosion? He pressed the call button again, wishing someone would respond.

Three clicks was supposed to bring someone…wasn't it? Damn it, where the hell was his back-up? He was too young to do this alone, for crying out loud! Desoto whimpered and shielded his eyes as a blinding white light filled the corridor. He wasn't too sure about the origin, but it seemed to emanate from the smuggler's cell.

He was going to have one hell of a migraine in the morning, Desoto thought as he lost consciousness.

Desoto sat up with a groan. His head hurt, and it felt like someone had used it as a sledgehammer, or a corkscrew. Ignoring regulations—they were new anyways, and no one was following them anyways—the young man undid the straps holding his helmet on and pulled it off. He groaned and put his head between his knees, wondering just what the hell had happened. The last thing he remembered, there'd been some sort of explosion, and… If the smuggler had broken out while he was on shift, he could kiss that scholarship to Palm City Uni goodbye.

The young guard gave a little whimper at the thought and pulled his helmet back on. No need for one of the supers to think he was disobeying dumb regulations. Mr. Portman was probably going to chew him out anyways, when he came by for the inspection tour in the morning. Maybe his cousin at ARK could get him a job when he got fired…

Desoto hauled himself upright, using the wall as support. A quick look into the cell told him that Scales was…

"Fuck it all!" Desoto yelled, not bothering to keep his voice down. The door was half-hanging on its hinges, and Scales—that weirdo—wasn't in his cell. Nope, not at all. No green smuggler. Goodbye, university.

For some reason, though, the sight of a little kid in the cell didn't bother him as much as it should have. Desoto stared at the boy, who looked terrified, for a few seconds. He then began laughing hysterically, and slid down the wall. There was no way this was happening to him, seriously.

- o -

Portman paced around the office, doing his level best not to start swearing out loud. There was no way this could possibly be happening, and yet… He bit back another curse as his gaze fell on the boy slumped over on the sofa. The proof of the bizarre early morning events was practically staring him in the face, staring at the carpet.

Two hours ago, he'd gotten a frantic call from the warden of Owl Island. Apparently, there'd been some sort of break-out… At least, that was what the warden thought had happened. Considering the circumstances, and the nature of the boy sitting in front of him, Portman didn't know how else to classify it.

Why, in the name of all things holy, would a criminal break out of solitary confinement, vanish off the island without being spotted by the guards…and then leave a small boy in the cell? (A small boy, Portman thought with a grimace, that was most likely his own son.) For that matter, Portman thought as he sat down, how had the kid gotten into the holding cells in the first place? At midnight, for crying out loud! If Portman didn't know any better, he'd have guessed that ARK was setting him up for a fall.

He sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. It was far too early for him to be dealing with anything more than a cup of coffee… The kid wasn't helping that feeling either. It wasn't little Dominic's fault, Portman supposed, but what else could he say?

The guards had stormed up to the isolation wing the second Desoto began calling for help. They'd found the guard in hysterics. He'd been sedated as soon as the guards figured out that they couldn't calm him down. And then they'd found a much younger carbon-copy of Scales sitting in the cell.

The kid hadn't responded until one of the guards tried to pick him up. That guard was currently in the infirmary getting stitches for the five six-inch long gashes on the side of his face. Apparently Scales had taught his son—if Dominic was his son, and not… Portman ignored the other possibility that had been brought up—how to fight. He'd fought back against all of the guards after that. What had disturbed the guards wasn't the kid's appearance, but the absolute loathing on his face. It was almost like…he wanted to watch everyone suffer, more than he was.

Portman sighed again and muttered an epithet under his breath. It was no doubt something uncharitable directed towards Peter Fleming and ARK Corporation. If not for them, Portman suspected that Scales wouldn't even have been in Owl Island awaiting trial for first-degree murder.

Now, ARK was sticking its corporate nose where it wasn't wanted. Again. Somehow, despite the lockdown the warden had put in place, someone had let the situation slip to a relative working for ARK's security teams. Peter Fleming had apparently taken an interest in the situation, and was sending a convoy down to Owl Island to take custody of Scales' son.

Which was why, in response, Portman had sent an e-mail to Orwell Is Watching. Hopefully the blogger would contact the Cape and pass the message along. He might not approve of vigilantism, or even like Scales (he despised the smuggler, actually), but the Cape was still a better option than trusting anything to ARK.

Portman looked out the window at the back of the office, and sighed. The entire island was awash in light, and, if he listened hard enough, he could hear the guard dogs somewhere in the distance. The civilians were going to be unhappy in the morning, for more reasons than one.

What the hell had Scales been thinking, Portman wondered. Why escape, only to leave his absolutely terrified son behind? He picked at a loose thread on his shirtsleeve, and wished he wasn't so adamant about staying on the wagon. If he weren't, he'd be drunk right now. (The deformed smuggler apparently had a semi-supernatural ability to drive his guards to drink. It seemed he'd passed the talent on to his son.)

He glanced over at Scales' son again, and heaved another world-weary sigh. After the sedative had taken effect, the doctors had done a routine medical check. The kid was at least twenty pounds underweight, and suffering from broken bones. Whatever else happened, Portman was going to make sure that Scales never got within thirty feet of this boy again. Abusive probably didn't even begin to cover what little Dominic had gone through.

Whatever the boy's actual parentage was, it was a safe assumption that his father had not been… Well, the best of parents, to put it lightly. Who would do that to a child? Make them so broken that…

Portman had worked in Child and Family Services in his younger days, before going to a safe alternative in politics. He couldn't handle seeing the kids he'd worked so hard to help go straight back to the people who'd damaged them in the first place. The system was broken, he knew that. But if he could only do one thing with his life, it'd be keeping that particular defect from affecting this one. He'd seen some of the scars on the kid's back as he'd been led by one of the guards into the office.

He stood up and stretched, before checking his watch again. He'd ordered the staff of Owl Island to stall ARK's convoy as long as possible, and it'd been three hours. God knew how long that tactic would work. Hopefully long enough for the Cape to reach this office, he thought.

Portman walked over to the sofa and sat down next to Dominic. At this range, it was easy to see why the guards had jokingly dubbed him "Bite-sized". He really was a carbon-copy of Dominic Raoul up close. (Was the kid a junior, or something? Portman wondered absently.) With the exception of not having both ears pierced yet, Dominic Junior was the spitting image of his dad.

Dominic looked over, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. Portman smiled back, and held out one hand.

"Hello son," he said in a tone that gave away none of his anxiety. "My name's—"

"Mr. Portman," Dominic interrupted quietly, before looking nervously at his hands. "I heard the cozzers talkin'," he muttered quietly. "I wasn' eavesdropping, I swear! Straight up!"

Portman had to frown at the earnestness in Dominic Junior's tone. It was almost like… But no. He shoved the thought aside, trying to view this objectively. Don't blame everything on abuse; there could be a simpler explanation.

"It's alright, son," Portman replied gently, shaking off the line of thought the child's protests had brought. "How are you feeling?"

Dominic shrugged, before returning his attention to his staring contest with the ugly beige carpet. "Peak," he muttered sullenly to the floor. Portman sighed; he hadn't expected much of an answer anyways, but… He caught Dominic Junior looking at him with an expression of open curiosity. As soon as the thought registered, the expression was gone as though it had never been there.

How the heck did a ten-year-old get that good at concealing his emotions? When Portman got his hands on Scales, the smuggler was a dead man…

Portman didn't try the standard line of conversation again. Small talk wouldn't do much more than make the already-sedated kid fall asleep at this point. He sighed and looked over at the miniature Scales again. "Hey kiddo," he said, reaching out to touch Dominic's shoulder. It had been an innocent gesture to make sure his young charge was still awake, but the boy reacted like he'd been attacked—and proved that the sedative had worn off.

Dominic whacked his hand away and vaulted over the arm of the sofa. Portman stared at the recently vacated seat; he was pretty sure his jaw had dropped in shock. All he'd done was try to… Portman sighed as realization hit. Had the scarring he'd seen, so very briefly, come from a belt by any chance?

Portman stood up from his seat on the sofa, and walked over to the edge that Dominic had disappeared over. The boy was crouched against the wall, shaking. His eyes were wide in fear, and he was trembling like a leaf in a windstorm. The secretary of prisons knelt down, holding his hands out.

In as gentle a tone as he could manage, Portman began speaking again. "Hey, come here kiddo. I'm sorry for scaring you," he continued, watching as Dominic Junior visibly calmed. "It's alright, come on…" Little by little, he managed to coax the boy out of the corner.

Portman smiled encouragingly as the miniature came to a stop at the very edge of the sofa. When he'd been younger, he would have killed for kids who calmed down that easily… Now, hopefully, he could ask some questions to get concrete answers. Preferably one that answered how and why he'd gotten into isolation in the middle of the night.

"Are…" Dominic started, but the question died on his lips. He trailed off and rubbed his left arm in what could have been a nervous habit, before stopping as soon as he realized that Portman was staring at him. "Nothin'," he mumbled to the sofa. "Where…" He looked around, as though visibly fishing for a new question. He hit on one, and finally asked "Where am I?"

Portman smiled, sitting back on his heels. That was one question he could at least answer. "You're on Owl Island," he said, carefully enunciating the location. He caught a fleeting look of annoyance, and grinned. The grin disappeared as he watched Dominic Junior flinch back a little. Damn. There went that little bit of rapport with him…

How much longer was it going to take Orwell to reach the Cape? There was only so long he could keep stalling ARK—and they were already on the causeway! Eventually, the phone line would have to reopen, the checkpoints on the causeway would have to be opened up, and the convoy would reach the prison. And…little Dominic would be taken by ARK, so that the company could do God only knew what.

Using hostages wasn't exactly against ARK's policy. After Fleming had attempted to buy the ports, he'd done some research. In previous deals, children of the hold-outs had gone missing. Some had been returned when the deal was concluded, some…

Well, Scales' long, rather unpleasant history with ARK Corporation wasn't going to be favorable for his son. Not in any sense of the word.

Portman looked up as Dominic Junior cleared his throat. The child was looking up at him, eyes wide in apprehension. Oh. The kid must have asked another question while he was lost in thought.

"Yes?" he asked.

Dominic swallowed, and repeated his question. "Wot's bein' done about…well…" He trailed off and waved a hand at himself. It was a general question, but Portman got the gist of it.

"We're trying to find him," Portman replied gently. "Do you remember how you got here?"

Dominic Junior shrugged. "I was…in th' cage…" he muttered, trailing off. A look of dawning horror crossed his face, and he clapped both hands over his mouth. His eyes were wide in fear, and his pupils had shrunk to tiny pinpricks.

Portman's mental estimation of Scales dropped like a rock. If that…thing was this boy's father, there was a shallow, unmarked grave in the smuggler's future. A cage? Please, for the love of God, let him be referring to the isolation wing, Portman thought.

"Okay," Portman said encouragingly. "Where was this cage, kiddo?" He resisted the urge to cross his fingers as Dominic drew breath to reply.

Two events happened in quick succession, cutting off Dominic's reply. The first was the warden bursting into the office, demanding to know what was going on. Apparently, the guards had found a certain masked individual skulking around on the roof. They'd sincerely hoped he was here to find Scales, and were all soundly disappointed when they'd heard the vigilante was only investigating a tip-off related to the smuggler's alleged son.

Oh, and the ARK Convoy had reached the main gates.

The second event coincided with the warden slamming his way into the office, bellowing about the Cape. An absolutely gut-wrenching, high-pitched wail of fear tore its way out of little Dominic's mouth. Portman and the warden both stared in shock at the smuggler's miniature carbon copy in surprise.

Portman was about to try and calm the kid down again when another guard came in with a second bit of bad news. Mick Reese was with the convoy.

"Ah hell," Portman swore, completely forgetting the impressionable young child sitting two feet away from him. Mick Reese had supposedly been convicted of embezzlement when the extortion video came out. Apparently the charges had been dropped when Voyt had died; Reese's animosity towards Scales hadn't suffered the same fate.

What the hell else was going to go wrong today?

- o - o -

Hey look, it's a new story! And we've got a miniature of Scales, some bad plot twists, and a few contrived coincidences to start off the new round of writing.

So, what did you think? Good, bad, or just plain confusing? Drop a line and let me know!