THE INVISIBLE MAN
POINTS OF VIEW
by
Sanguine
The Keeper
I've studied Arnaud's formula. I can replicate it perfectly right down to it's most diabolical element of sadistic genius. At first I wondered why he included some of the compounds in the counter agent. Clearly they served no useful purpose and didn't affect the gland at all. I thought about what they did do and my first response was to manufacture the counter agent without them. But I forced myself to think about their purpose. I thought about Arnaud and hated myself for the clarity of my understanding, and my complicity in continuing his cruelty.
There were compounds in the counter agent that did nothing but cause initial pain with the injection and other, more subtle, ingredients to soothe the pain and mildly stimulate endorphins. I imagine the feeling must be something like the mellow buzz off a glass of good wine. It must be doubly welcome after the pain radiating from the gland with the onset of the quick silver madness, coupled with the pain of the initial injection.
The intent was to hurt and then soothe, to control and reward, make the subject dread and crave all at the same time. Darien would never be able to become complacent about the injections and yet he would be chemically coaxed to submit to the pain.
It was horrible. It was brilliant.
I wondered if eventually he'd learn to crave the pain, or if he'd always be afraid of the injections enough to put off getting them as long as possible.
Darien breezed in. I caught him glancing at the chair and noticed the little twinge of dread and the way his lips moved against each other as if tasting something sweet.
As part of his conditioning, I always give him his shot while he sits in the chair. I make him wait just long enough to reinforce the concept that he is dependent on my actions. I use a large, old-style, glass hypodermic as part of the psychological aspect of the process. He must associate this object with his submission/reward and he must associate me as the source of it.
I was careful from the very first to make sure he was positioned for the injections in such a way as to reinforce the subliminal suggestion of vulnerability and surrender. The examination chair places him on his back, leaned back just enough to put him off balance, and low enough that my elevated stool puts me in a position of superiority. Its very primal and thus effective. No matter how defiant he is when he saunters into the lab, he is more subdued once in the chair.
It isn't suggested or tolerated that he learn to inject himself. He knows this, without even voicing it, proof that he's submitted subconsciously to my authority and his dependence.
But he has his moments...
Darien flings himself down on the chair with an air of impatient demand. "Come on, Keep," he commands. "Can't keep the fat man waiting."
I finish what I'm working on and casually stroll over to the chair. "This isn't a filling station, Darien. I'm not some attendant ready to spring to your needs."
His dark eyes dart to the cooler behind us with a flash of worry. "Just don't tell me you're out of unleaded."
I hold out my hand in a way that has become a familiar cue. Darien surrenders his wrist obediently. I check his monitor and frown over the two remaining sections of green. "Aren't you cutting it a bit close, mate?" I admonish, but soften my tone with just a touch of concern. "The counter agent isn't ready."
The dark eyes flinch away from me and he settles back against the chair. The defiance fading visibly. For the first time I wonder about the process he goes through before coming in here; knowing him, I can suddenly imagine quite clearly Darien working up the fortitude to come in here and demand or beg or simply submit to his needs. There has to be a veritable inner tempest of conflict, fear of the quick silver madness both its pain and the insanity, craving the safety margin a fresh shot gives him, yet fearing the injection and always wrestling with his dependence. The shots come from the agency, from me, and he is never allowed a measure of independence from the essential nature of his service. He tries awkwardly, sometimes eloquently, to gain some measure of control, and it can't be tolerated. Its my job to make sure he always knows who holds the leash and just how much slack he can have.
"How long?" He almost makes it a demand but softens it to just short of a plea.
I make a show of regret. "Too long I'm afraid, mate. I told you not to use invisibility without approval."
The fight goes out of him completely. His eyes implore me for some way out of what he knows is inevitable. "What do we do?"
I stroke his arm. It is painfully tracked with marks and the veins jump up against the skin like hopeful predators. "You'll have to stay here until its ready." At the renewed hope in his dark eyes, I switch to my most reassuring voice. "You won't be restrained until its absolutely necessary."
Desperation shivers through him and he gazes into my face with misery. "It won't come to that, right? You'll have the counter agent ready before I run out of time." He knows my answer even before he frames the question.
"Fraid not, mate," I say regretfully.
Fear stares back at me, miserable desperation struggles beneath his expression. "Claire..." he pleads. "Couldn't you sedate me?"
I could, but I lie. "I don't think it would be a good idea."
[][][][][]
DARIEN
It's knocking, knocking at the back of my brain, soon it'll start clamoring to be let in and then... then it'll simply just kick the door in.
I almost reach up to rub the back of my neck, but stop when I notice the Keep glancing my way. She's watching me surreptitiously as she works on the counter agent. She trusts the monitor she put on my wrist, but she doesn't trust me to keep track of it.
Usually she lets me pretend that I'm the driver and she's the mechanic-quick pit stop and I'm on my way. She keeps everything running smoothly so I can get out there on the track. I appreciate the little illusion, but we both know the truth. I'm a kept man.
I've thought about those animals that chew their limbs off to get free of traps. I've felt that sort of wild despair, and I think... if the Keeper had been anyone else, I might have gone that route, crazy, desperate. If she just once seemed to gloat over the power she holds over me. If I really believed she had absolutely no interest at all in my welfare; if she took advantage... I shiver at the thought. She's got all the power but she doesn't drive the point home with the ruthlessness that some might.
After Lawson, after being captured by the Chinese, I imagined with stark clarity what my life would be like if I fell into the wrong hands. One of the hazards of a vivid imagination. It doesn't help that I have enough experience with prison life to know what power and helplessness make of men.
I told Claire, when we first met that I wasn't going to be a slave. I meant it. I have lost my freedom a time or two, enough to be terrified of the prospect. But even as I said those brave words, I knew in my heart it was a lost cause. I knew I couldn't hold out and that the agency could make me do whatever they wanted. I tried to believe I could hang on to some measure of self respect, but I knew it was a case of being willing to die rather than submit. And I wanted to live...
She intrigued me with her offer; a slim hope that there could be something more than helpless servitude. I craved that hope as much as I craved the shot of counter agent she held so enticingly out of reach. She got me to accept the leash by offering the one thing I'd bow my head for-a chance to be free.
I ached with self-betrayal and hope, torn in directions of shame and desire. I went to my knees and tilted my head bearing my throat like a submissive dog. Her hands were cool and the shot stung as it slid into my neck. I was hers in that moment and she knew it.
She didn't have to let me have my little illusions of independence, but she let me have just enough that I usually felt like a patient not an addict. I'm not going to say this, not to anyone, but there's something deeper at play here, something between us that I loathe and yet, as long as its down deep, kept at a distance and doesn't get hauled up to the surface, I won't fight it. She lets me have my little illusion as long as its clear, subliminally a perfect undercurrent of fact, that she's in control and I am what I am. I am kept.
As long as she lets me make my obeisance covertly, I don't fight it. If I fail to acknowledge her control, she reins me back, subtly but completely. Somehow she knows if I'm faking, and she makes damn sure I'm sincere before she lets up.
This is one of those times. Somehow I stepped over the line and she's putting me in my place. I know it. She knows it, but neither of us own up to the fact. My stomach flutters and I think about those animals in traps. This is going to hurt and not just my pride.
Maybe she is genuine and I'm just paranoid. Maybe she's really out of counter agent... and this isn't a ploy to put me in my place. Maybe Hobbes is stable and completely sane and moonlights as a Martha Stewart impersonator.
The pain comes. Knew it would, but its still a surprise. There's no hiding it. The magazines I was pretending to read scatter to the floor as I jerk to my feet grasping the back of my head.
Claire-God, does she have any idea how much this hurts? Do any of them have any idea? Would she do this to me if she did? I can't believe it. I won't believe it. What would I do if that were true?
Animals in traps... chewing off their legs...
Her hands are cool and firm. But a rush of cloth and cologne sweep close and stronger callused hands take over.
"Easy pal. I got you," Hobbes vows. Holding me steady with the weight of his body, keeping my head from hitting the floor as another spasm takes me down. He knows how to ride it out. His voice murmurs in a steady reassuring litany. "Get control of it, Fawkes. You can do it."
He's like a coach for some athletic event. Its odd and yet it always helps. Something in me responds to the rough support, the sympathy that doesn't come with any pity or condescension.
"Get him up and into the chair," the Keeper urges.
Hobbes shakes his head. "Not just yet," he says confidently. "He can do it himself in a minute." He seems to know, when I'm not even sure. "You hear me, pal? You with me?" he says quietly. Hiding my face and my answer from the Keeper's gaze, a co-conspirator in my little bids for some measure of control. Bless the man. I lock onto his duplicitous eyes unsure if I can make good on his promise, but the pain recedes.
Hobbes helps me to my feet and over to the chair. "Where's his shot?" he demands.
"Yeah, how bout it?" I ask, my voice a little shaky.
"Not ready," the Keeper answers.
Hobbes rests one hand on my arm and keeps it there as he turns. "Not ready? What do mean, not ready?"
"I mean I don't have it. I'm working on it," she exclaims.
Hobbes' fingers dig into my arm. "Working on it, what does that mean exactly? What are we talking about here, five minutes, ten?"
I want to know too, but he's blocking my view of the Keep.
"More like an hour or two, perhaps more," Claire confesses.
"Keep," Hobbes protests. "He doesn't have hours. He's got like minutes before he goes wacko. You gotta do better than that."
She moves around to the foot of the chair. My whole body is thrumming with the craving for the counter agent, especially now that I'm in the chair where my body has come to expect its fix, from the woman who has always supplied it. I'm like one of Pavlov's dogs salivating at the bell.
Her face is concerned. "You're right. He doesn't have much time." She sighs. "Darien, do want to be restrained here or...?"
"The rubber room?" I finish for her. "No thanks, once was enough. If its all the same to you, I'd rather not be restrained at all."
"Not an option, mate," she declares sadly. She looks at Hobbes. "Give me a hand."
Hobbes steps back from the chair. "Strapping my partner down? I don't think so." He looks nervous and his eyes flinch away from mine. It's just a performance for my sake. We both know how things stand.
"It's okay, Hobbes," I say. "Do it."
The Keeper moves to a drawer and pulls out restraints. "You're prepared," I mutter with uneasy sarcasm.
She looks apologetic. "Sorry..."
She takes my hand, gives it a squeeze and then puts a padded restraint cuff around my wrist. I lift my other hand and let her put on the matched set. They are heavy. I eye the straps with trepidation as she hands them to Hobbes. He looks uncomfortable as he starts passing them over my chest, through the restraint cuffs and under the table. The Keeper straps down my legs.
"Hey, is all this really necessary?" I complain as the heavy straps are doubled and tightened. "I'm not Superman."
"Sez you," Hobbes jokes. "When you go Jeckyl on us, you're freakishly strong."
"Hyde," I correct. Hobbes flinches as if I said duck.
"Why?" he asks suspiciously.
"Not hide, Mr. Hyde. Doctor Jeckyl was the sane one, Mr. Hyde was the maniac," I say, trying to hide with a little banter how helpless and panicky I feel. I hate being restrained. I mean I know most people wouldn't care much for it, but I really hate it. I always have. For a thief, you'd think I'd get used to the occasional set of handcuffs and the occupational hazard of being incarcerated, but not me. The thing is-- a thief can't think about that part of the job. The main reason I loved what I did was the freedom from convention, the freedom period. I never could stand being tied down in any way.
Since I became the invisible man, I've been put in a straight jacket, tied down to exam tables and handcuffed more times than I care to remember. I tried to keep this particular fear secret, afraid it would be one more thing they could use to control me. I'm scared, really scared and the panic only grows the longer I can't move.
[][][][][]
HOBBES
Christ, look at him. He's shaking like leaf and I can see he's scared. I've cinched the straps down tight. He won't be able to hurt himself or anyone else. Fawkes has no clue what a tough customer he is when he goes quick silver mad. It's enough to intimidate anyone and I've seen it up close and personal.
What the hell is going on anyway? The whole point of the tattoo and that monitor thingy is to keep this from happening. The Keeper's supposed to make sure it never comes to this.
I catch a strange look in her eye and a shiver of dark suspicion crawls down my spine. There's no way she could mean for Fawkes to go through this. She'd never hurt him on purpose, cuz that would be... that would be evil. Bobby Hobbes doesn't do evil. Aren't we supposed to be the good guys?
I like Claire. She's pretty, smart and she's a real sweet gal, but I know this game and how the players work. She's got to be much more than she seems. We all are. I just hope she's not hiding a sadistic streak.
I don't like to see people suffer. So it figures they partner me up with a guy wired for pain. Even if Fawkes didn't have the gland, he'd still be built to suffer, some people are just like that. They think too much, feel too much and they put themselves right in the path of the most pain.
He's a tough kid. If I'm a judge of nothing else, I'm a judge of that, and this kid is as tough as they come. So when the gland does its thing, not the invisible thing, but the pain thing, I know its for real and its bad. I've seen him fight it off and I've seen it take him down. I'm here to tell you that this guy has won my respect. I got no idea what the pain in his head is like and after seeing it put him through his paces, I don't want to know. The amazing thing is that it isn't the pain that scares him. He's scared of what he'll do when he goes nuts. He's scared of hurting people. I gotta respect that in a guy who could really do some damage if he wanted.
Course the pain ain't no picnic...
Fawkes arches up against the straps with a groan that becomes a howl. His head thrashes back and forth and I hold on worried he'll hurt himself.
"Get to work!" I yell at the Keep. "Make the damn shot!"
She gives me a look that could curdle milk. "Try to keep him as quiet as you can," she says and moves off. But I can't help but get the impression that she's unhappy I'm here.
Fawkes looks at me. He's eyes are bloodshot, not completely red but darkly veined with red. "Hobbes..." he says in a hushed voice. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
He looks away, sighs and glances back. "For whatever I might say or do when I lose it."
"No problem."
"Second thought maybe you should just gag me," he jokes weakly.
I grin. "Maybe."
His whole body arches against the straps and he screams. I do my best to steady him, but only the Keeper can help him now.
I look over to where she's working. It looks like she's doing stuff, but what do I know? I gotta believe she's as freaked out and upset for the kid as I am.
His eyes are red, but more than the color the way he stares is creepy. Its a malevolent, poisonous stare, red-hot but chilling.
"You toady bastard," Fawkes snarls. "Let me go."
"No way," I say firmly.
A steady stream of foul expletives pours from his mouth before I slap duct tape over it. My ears can take it but I don't know how much Fawkes remembers about what he says or does, and I'd like to spare him what I can.
Suddenly it occurs to me that I don't know what happens after this part. I've seen him lose it and he's always gotten his shots and returned to being normal. I've got no idea what happens if he doesn't get the counter agent.
He writhes on the table; muscles, veins and sinews looking like they're trying to struggle free of his body. I pull the tape off because I'm afraid he can't breathe. He drags in great gasps of air, panting like a runner. I'm not sure he even knows where he is.
"How much of this does he have to take?" I call out to the Keeper.
She looks up from her work. "I don't know. The pain should stop, but he'll be..."
"Crazy," I say.
"The longer it lasts the more danger there is of the condition being permanent."
"Permanent?" I repeat. I start babbling at her about how she has to make it so that doesn't happen. I have reasons. They're good reasons, some of them anyway.
"Hobbes," says a voice that doesn't sound much like Darien. Its like a whisper filtered through a rusty screen and it scrapes my nerves to hear it.
"I'm here for ya, Darien," I say.
He doesn't look at me. His face is turned away. "Help me," he whispers.
"I'm doing what I can, Pal." I swear.
"Let me go," he begs.
"No can do my friend," I answer firmly, but I try to make it as kind as possible. I am pretty sure its not really Darien I'm talkin to anyway. I mean it is, but it isn't. It's his evil, gland-gone-bad, self which we really should give a name.
"Then just kill me," he says in a stronger voice. His face turns and the blood red gaze searches my face. "Don't let them keep me like this."
Oh Lordy that's Fawkes talking and he means it. I think about all the places I've been and some of the things I've done that don't haunt my conscience because if I let them, I'd be crazier than this poor bastard strapped to the table. I lean down real close. "If it comes to it, I will," I promise. I hope its Fawkes I'm talking to. I hope he hears me and understands. Bobby Hobbes keeps his word, and though it cuts me up inside, I really mean it. I'd do it. I'd put him out and I'd take the consequences that came of killing my partner, cuz he's my partner and partners do for each other the kinds of things no one else could be expected to do.
"Thank you," he whispers.
I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. "But it won't come to that. The Doc is going to save the day just like she always does. So you hang in there."
His body is rigid and I can't see anything in his eyes but pure red. I think he's going to snarl something vile but his breath sorta hitches and his teeth clinch as he tries to hold back another spasm of pain. There's a change in his voice, a low rasp to it that signals his bad self. "You're an idiot, Hobbes," he says.
"Tell me something I don't know," I quip. I don't really care what his evil twin has to say. It's none of it real anyway.
"She's working you. They're all working you," evil twin sneers. "You think you lucked into this job, but the truth is they hand picked you."
"That's right, because I'm damn good," I crow. Maybe I do care what he has to say after all.
He snarls. "Moron! They hand picked you because you fit some sort of profile they did on me. It's got nothing to do with you and everything to do with how they knew I'd trust you because you're too crazy and too dumb-loyal to be anything but genuine. What other guy would stick by me but a lunatic? What other guy would buy into the facade that my Keeper doesn't run this whole show. The official-the agency, they're all just window dressing. She's the real deal. She's the boss."
He's yelling by the time he's finished, pulling against the straps with all his might. For a thin guy, Fawkes can be frighteningly strong. The table actually creaks and I can see the straps saw down into his skin. "She's doing this to me!" he screams. "Look at her! She's not working on the Counter Agent. She's just going through the motions."
"Why?" I ask. "Why would she do that?" He had me going until he started raving.
Tears stream out of his dark red eyes, furious tears of pain and rage. "Why does a scientist do anything?" he implores. "I'm just another lab rat. She wants to see what happens. God, she's my Keeper," he says in a defeated sort of way that I don't like because it sounds too much like Darien. "How can she keep me unless she knows exactly where I am? So she's got to put me in my place and make sure I stay there. And here I am," he sobs. "Where she wants me." He pulls at the restraints for emphasis.
"She's trying to help you, buddy." I try and reassure.
He snaps his teeth together and struggles briefly. "Help me?" he exclaims. "Do I look like a man being helped?" His back arches and he screams.
I leave him and go over to the Keep. She's got her head pressed into some sort of microscope thing. Its as if she hasn't heard anything that's gone on. I nudge her shoulder. "Tell me he's a raving psycho. Tell me he's totally delusional. Make me believe he's wrong and you're doing everything to help him." I am too close to losing it. I'm way too close to believing him.
She pulls back slowly from her work to look at me. Her eyes are streaming with tears. I feel kicked to the gut.
"I'm sorry. Geeze, I'm so sorry," I mumble. I mean it. I can't even tell you how much I mean it. She gives a little nod as if she's afraid to speak. I wish I could just crawl down a hole. Who knew the Keep could look so... heart broken.
I go back to Fawkes. "You can just shut up now," I warn.
He groans. "You are the perfect patsy," he accuses. "You believe her. Don't you? Don't you see that you're letting her do this to me. I thought you were my friend."
"I'm not your friend," I snap. "I'm Darien Fawkes' friend and you're not him."
"I'm glad," the man on the table says with a grin that the devil would be proud to own. "Darien Fawkes is a slave and a fool. He's always going to be. He doesn't have the guts to do what it takes to get what he really wants, what I want."
I widen my stance. "Oh yeah, and what is it that you want? I find it hard to believe the two of you could want the same thing." Cocky bastard. I don't even want to talk to him. Gives me the creeps to hear Darien talk like this. This isn't him. Isn't anything like him at all. This creature wants to kill us.
The eyes are wet and red and dark, like the heart of something. "Freedom," he says, caressing the word with his mouth. "I could get it, but he never will."
My mouth is dry. "Why is that?" I try to sound mocking.
"He cares about how he gets it and I don't."
[][][][][]
THE KEEPER
I'm pretty sure I've heard every word. I didn't think Darien could be so articulate under the influence of the quick silver madness. His astute observations are alarming. It would be worse if they ignited Hobbes' intense paranoia, but Hobbes' seems to have brushed Darien's ravings off. This is gratifying because I don't think we could replace Bobby this late in the game.
I take samples from Darien. It's interesting the changes in his chemistry. A byproduct of the QSM is a potent and very intriguing boost to the adrenaline system. He's increased strength is phenomenal. The strain on his heart is troubling, but its something to look into. If I could isolate the properties that allow for the great strength, the applications would be staggering.
I really thought the pain would dissipate as the madness progressed to its final stage. I now think that I don't know what the final stage is. It would seem the gland keeps making its demands at ever increasing levels. Poor bugger...
I was annoyed by Hobbes arrival, but it turns out to have been enlightening. Hobbes has a pronounced calming affect on Darien during the initial phase of the QSM. I hadn't realized that and it bothers me that I'll have to design some field tests.
The readouts on Darien were well worth the risks of the experiment. I have data here that will take weeks, possibly months to fully study. The gland has secreted a substance into his blood stream that I've never seen before. It isn't part of the original design and I have no idea what it does.
He seems calm now; calm for a murderous fiend. He'd be quite functional now if we could control him. I'd like to express Quick Silver from him now and force the gland into over production now that its built up to this level, but... well there are limits and though I'm quite sure Darien would survive, I'm not sure he'd forgive.
Hobbes would be problematic... Luckily he's so easy to manipulate. I honestly thought I was going to make him cry. I do admire him though and I never thought I would. There are qualities to Bobby Hobbes that we never anticipated. He has a strength...
I prepare the counter agent and move to Darien's side. He's exhausted and I can tell there will be bruises were the straps have been. He does something he has never done before, he tries to avoid the injection.
"No!" he shouts and struggles as much as he can. He tries to appeal to Hobbes. "Please, Bobby, don't let her do it! Let me quit. Let me beat this. She's keeping me hooked. Don't you see that?"
"This isn't like heroin, Darien," I explain patiently, more for Bobby's benefit then for the raving patient. "You can't beat this cold turkey."
He ignores me and concentrates on Bobby. "Please, Bobby."
Hobbes looks at me and asks, "Permanent?" harkening back to my earlier dire prediction.
"I don't know. I think so," I admit. I've got a horrible suspicion that Darien might somehow have a sense of something that I don't. Maybe there's some instinct telling him he can beat the addiction. He could be right and that would never do.
Hobbes holds Darien's arm still for me with a look of grim determination. Darien sobs and screams begging us not to do it, but I give him the shot. He winces hard and passes out as he does when his body reacts to the sudden surge of conflicting signals.
Hobbes starts to unstrap Darien but I stop him with a cautioning look.
Bobby seems startled and upset. He looks at Darien with worry and pulls up a chair to wait by his partner's side.
[][][][][]
HOBBES
I'm thinking too much. I know it, but can't stop. Evil Darien might be on to something, maybe a lot of things. I don't know. I'm not sure I want to know. I try to stop thinking about it.
The Keep moves off to clean up her lab stuff and put away the rest of the counter agent.
When I'm sure she's not looking, I loosen one of the straps that go over Darien's chest. Carefully I lift up his t-shirt. What I see doesn't make me happy.
"You are going to be feeling this, my friend," I mutter.
He comes to his senses slowly. When he's like this, he often wakes up not knowing where he is or what he's done.
I give him the quick run down. "You're in the lab. There wasn't any counter agent and we had to strap you down while the Keep made some more."
"Can you let me up?" he asks quietly. I can't tell how much he remembers but I'm hoping for both our sakes he'll pretend he doesn't even if he does. I got a bad feeling that there's a path here we shouldn't walking and I'm hoping he'll keep us off it.
I should wait for the Keep's okay, but I rush to get the straps off him. He can't hide the bruises on his wrists with just his t-shirt, but I pretend I don't see them.
The Keeper on the other hand isn't so protective of his pride. She rushes over with a couple of pills and a glass of water. "How are you feeling?" she asks.
"Like I've been hit by a truck," Darien quips with a groan. He takes the pills, swallows them and a drink of water.
I almost miss it, but Bobby Hobbes is nobody's fool. She keeps her hand out and a little moment of something meaningful passes between them. Making like its nothing, Darien presents his wrist. She checks his tattoo while he looks away, covering his reaction by taking another drink of water, but not before I catch a look in his eye.
I must have seen them play this little scene dozens of times and never noticed. I thought it was a doctor patient sort of thing, but its more than that. Its a power thing; who has it and who doesn't. Its his way of acknowledging that he doesn't. Its so subtle I almost missed it. She doesn't ever seem to demand it or even ask, but an ugly thought comes to me about why he does it. So he won't end up like he did today. Man O man that's an ugly thing to think!
I look at my partner. Its an even uglier way to live.
"You hungry?" I say as if my stomach wasn't rolling over in sickening contortions of sympathy and rage.
"Starved," he lies, as if he wasn't feeling just as bad or worse.
I watch as he pulls his leather jacket on. He's sore but the jacket hides the bruises. The Keeper is watching too with a look of sympathy and concern. Its genuine. I'm sure it is. We should invite her to come with us. It would be rude not to. But I don't say anything and neither does Fawkes.
I can tell he wants to get away from the lab in the worst way, maybe the Keep is included in that sentiment.
[][][][][]
DARIEN
Beer really cold beer, the kind with the foamy little chunks of frost floating in the golden suds. It felt good on the cuts in my mouth. I must have bit the inside of my cheeks or something. I avoided the sharp crispy tortilla chips even though they were still warm and salty.
I really was hungry by the time we left the agency. I'd eaten through two large entrees of Carne Asada, without coming up for much air. Hobbes rattled on about combat stories. They were actually good stories but I always pretend they don't interest me.
We don't talk about what just happened in the lab. He doesn't ask me what I remember and I wouldn't tell him if I did. It's better that way. I'm not exactly sure why, I'm just sure that it is.
I'm hurt all over. My ribs are the worst, its as if I got crushed in a vice. I stole a look at my chest while I was in the men's room. It looks like I was beaten with a baseball bat. I'm not sure how that happened, but I'm pretty sure it was the straps they tied me down with. I must have hurt myself struggling. I'd say something about it. I would have complained, but I know if Claire saw the damage, next time it would be the straight jacket and the rubber room. I'd rather have the bruises...
I remember concepts mostly, dark ones. They are still with me waiting to be explored. I remember Hobbes sticking by me in that infuriating inexorable tenacious way. I am glad of it. I don't even know the exact reason why, but its like he saved me from a drowning I don't remember.
Something must have happened. Hobbs has bought four rounds and not complained once. The world is getting that nice soft fuzzy edge as I down the icy beer. I grin at Hobbes and he grins back and launches into another long involved tale. This one features a camel and a Russian submarine.
My life, as it turns out, is full of surprises. There's the obvious oddities and there's this, that hanging out in an obscure Mexican dive with my insanely over-experienced partner is the one of the highlights.
The End
POINTS OF VIEW
by
Sanguine
The Keeper
I've studied Arnaud's formula. I can replicate it perfectly right down to it's most diabolical element of sadistic genius. At first I wondered why he included some of the compounds in the counter agent. Clearly they served no useful purpose and didn't affect the gland at all. I thought about what they did do and my first response was to manufacture the counter agent without them. But I forced myself to think about their purpose. I thought about Arnaud and hated myself for the clarity of my understanding, and my complicity in continuing his cruelty.
There were compounds in the counter agent that did nothing but cause initial pain with the injection and other, more subtle, ingredients to soothe the pain and mildly stimulate endorphins. I imagine the feeling must be something like the mellow buzz off a glass of good wine. It must be doubly welcome after the pain radiating from the gland with the onset of the quick silver madness, coupled with the pain of the initial injection.
The intent was to hurt and then soothe, to control and reward, make the subject dread and crave all at the same time. Darien would never be able to become complacent about the injections and yet he would be chemically coaxed to submit to the pain.
It was horrible. It was brilliant.
I wondered if eventually he'd learn to crave the pain, or if he'd always be afraid of the injections enough to put off getting them as long as possible.
Darien breezed in. I caught him glancing at the chair and noticed the little twinge of dread and the way his lips moved against each other as if tasting something sweet.
As part of his conditioning, I always give him his shot while he sits in the chair. I make him wait just long enough to reinforce the concept that he is dependent on my actions. I use a large, old-style, glass hypodermic as part of the psychological aspect of the process. He must associate this object with his submission/reward and he must associate me as the source of it.
I was careful from the very first to make sure he was positioned for the injections in such a way as to reinforce the subliminal suggestion of vulnerability and surrender. The examination chair places him on his back, leaned back just enough to put him off balance, and low enough that my elevated stool puts me in a position of superiority. Its very primal and thus effective. No matter how defiant he is when he saunters into the lab, he is more subdued once in the chair.
It isn't suggested or tolerated that he learn to inject himself. He knows this, without even voicing it, proof that he's submitted subconsciously to my authority and his dependence.
But he has his moments...
Darien flings himself down on the chair with an air of impatient demand. "Come on, Keep," he commands. "Can't keep the fat man waiting."
I finish what I'm working on and casually stroll over to the chair. "This isn't a filling station, Darien. I'm not some attendant ready to spring to your needs."
His dark eyes dart to the cooler behind us with a flash of worry. "Just don't tell me you're out of unleaded."
I hold out my hand in a way that has become a familiar cue. Darien surrenders his wrist obediently. I check his monitor and frown over the two remaining sections of green. "Aren't you cutting it a bit close, mate?" I admonish, but soften my tone with just a touch of concern. "The counter agent isn't ready."
The dark eyes flinch away from me and he settles back against the chair. The defiance fading visibly. For the first time I wonder about the process he goes through before coming in here; knowing him, I can suddenly imagine quite clearly Darien working up the fortitude to come in here and demand or beg or simply submit to his needs. There has to be a veritable inner tempest of conflict, fear of the quick silver madness both its pain and the insanity, craving the safety margin a fresh shot gives him, yet fearing the injection and always wrestling with his dependence. The shots come from the agency, from me, and he is never allowed a measure of independence from the essential nature of his service. He tries awkwardly, sometimes eloquently, to gain some measure of control, and it can't be tolerated. Its my job to make sure he always knows who holds the leash and just how much slack he can have.
"How long?" He almost makes it a demand but softens it to just short of a plea.
I make a show of regret. "Too long I'm afraid, mate. I told you not to use invisibility without approval."
The fight goes out of him completely. His eyes implore me for some way out of what he knows is inevitable. "What do we do?"
I stroke his arm. It is painfully tracked with marks and the veins jump up against the skin like hopeful predators. "You'll have to stay here until its ready." At the renewed hope in his dark eyes, I switch to my most reassuring voice. "You won't be restrained until its absolutely necessary."
Desperation shivers through him and he gazes into my face with misery. "It won't come to that, right? You'll have the counter agent ready before I run out of time." He knows my answer even before he frames the question.
"Fraid not, mate," I say regretfully.
Fear stares back at me, miserable desperation struggles beneath his expression. "Claire..." he pleads. "Couldn't you sedate me?"
I could, but I lie. "I don't think it would be a good idea."
[][][][][]
DARIEN
It's knocking, knocking at the back of my brain, soon it'll start clamoring to be let in and then... then it'll simply just kick the door in.
I almost reach up to rub the back of my neck, but stop when I notice the Keep glancing my way. She's watching me surreptitiously as she works on the counter agent. She trusts the monitor she put on my wrist, but she doesn't trust me to keep track of it.
Usually she lets me pretend that I'm the driver and she's the mechanic-quick pit stop and I'm on my way. She keeps everything running smoothly so I can get out there on the track. I appreciate the little illusion, but we both know the truth. I'm a kept man.
I've thought about those animals that chew their limbs off to get free of traps. I've felt that sort of wild despair, and I think... if the Keeper had been anyone else, I might have gone that route, crazy, desperate. If she just once seemed to gloat over the power she holds over me. If I really believed she had absolutely no interest at all in my welfare; if she took advantage... I shiver at the thought. She's got all the power but she doesn't drive the point home with the ruthlessness that some might.
After Lawson, after being captured by the Chinese, I imagined with stark clarity what my life would be like if I fell into the wrong hands. One of the hazards of a vivid imagination. It doesn't help that I have enough experience with prison life to know what power and helplessness make of men.
I told Claire, when we first met that I wasn't going to be a slave. I meant it. I have lost my freedom a time or two, enough to be terrified of the prospect. But even as I said those brave words, I knew in my heart it was a lost cause. I knew I couldn't hold out and that the agency could make me do whatever they wanted. I tried to believe I could hang on to some measure of self respect, but I knew it was a case of being willing to die rather than submit. And I wanted to live...
She intrigued me with her offer; a slim hope that there could be something more than helpless servitude. I craved that hope as much as I craved the shot of counter agent she held so enticingly out of reach. She got me to accept the leash by offering the one thing I'd bow my head for-a chance to be free.
I ached with self-betrayal and hope, torn in directions of shame and desire. I went to my knees and tilted my head bearing my throat like a submissive dog. Her hands were cool and the shot stung as it slid into my neck. I was hers in that moment and she knew it.
She didn't have to let me have my little illusions of independence, but she let me have just enough that I usually felt like a patient not an addict. I'm not going to say this, not to anyone, but there's something deeper at play here, something between us that I loathe and yet, as long as its down deep, kept at a distance and doesn't get hauled up to the surface, I won't fight it. She lets me have my little illusion as long as its clear, subliminally a perfect undercurrent of fact, that she's in control and I am what I am. I am kept.
As long as she lets me make my obeisance covertly, I don't fight it. If I fail to acknowledge her control, she reins me back, subtly but completely. Somehow she knows if I'm faking, and she makes damn sure I'm sincere before she lets up.
This is one of those times. Somehow I stepped over the line and she's putting me in my place. I know it. She knows it, but neither of us own up to the fact. My stomach flutters and I think about those animals in traps. This is going to hurt and not just my pride.
Maybe she is genuine and I'm just paranoid. Maybe she's really out of counter agent... and this isn't a ploy to put me in my place. Maybe Hobbes is stable and completely sane and moonlights as a Martha Stewart impersonator.
The pain comes. Knew it would, but its still a surprise. There's no hiding it. The magazines I was pretending to read scatter to the floor as I jerk to my feet grasping the back of my head.
Claire-God, does she have any idea how much this hurts? Do any of them have any idea? Would she do this to me if she did? I can't believe it. I won't believe it. What would I do if that were true?
Animals in traps... chewing off their legs...
Her hands are cool and firm. But a rush of cloth and cologne sweep close and stronger callused hands take over.
"Easy pal. I got you," Hobbes vows. Holding me steady with the weight of his body, keeping my head from hitting the floor as another spasm takes me down. He knows how to ride it out. His voice murmurs in a steady reassuring litany. "Get control of it, Fawkes. You can do it."
He's like a coach for some athletic event. Its odd and yet it always helps. Something in me responds to the rough support, the sympathy that doesn't come with any pity or condescension.
"Get him up and into the chair," the Keeper urges.
Hobbes shakes his head. "Not just yet," he says confidently. "He can do it himself in a minute." He seems to know, when I'm not even sure. "You hear me, pal? You with me?" he says quietly. Hiding my face and my answer from the Keeper's gaze, a co-conspirator in my little bids for some measure of control. Bless the man. I lock onto his duplicitous eyes unsure if I can make good on his promise, but the pain recedes.
Hobbes helps me to my feet and over to the chair. "Where's his shot?" he demands.
"Yeah, how bout it?" I ask, my voice a little shaky.
"Not ready," the Keeper answers.
Hobbes rests one hand on my arm and keeps it there as he turns. "Not ready? What do mean, not ready?"
"I mean I don't have it. I'm working on it," she exclaims.
Hobbes' fingers dig into my arm. "Working on it, what does that mean exactly? What are we talking about here, five minutes, ten?"
I want to know too, but he's blocking my view of the Keep.
"More like an hour or two, perhaps more," Claire confesses.
"Keep," Hobbes protests. "He doesn't have hours. He's got like minutes before he goes wacko. You gotta do better than that."
She moves around to the foot of the chair. My whole body is thrumming with the craving for the counter agent, especially now that I'm in the chair where my body has come to expect its fix, from the woman who has always supplied it. I'm like one of Pavlov's dogs salivating at the bell.
Her face is concerned. "You're right. He doesn't have much time." She sighs. "Darien, do want to be restrained here or...?"
"The rubber room?" I finish for her. "No thanks, once was enough. If its all the same to you, I'd rather not be restrained at all."
"Not an option, mate," she declares sadly. She looks at Hobbes. "Give me a hand."
Hobbes steps back from the chair. "Strapping my partner down? I don't think so." He looks nervous and his eyes flinch away from mine. It's just a performance for my sake. We both know how things stand.
"It's okay, Hobbes," I say. "Do it."
The Keeper moves to a drawer and pulls out restraints. "You're prepared," I mutter with uneasy sarcasm.
She looks apologetic. "Sorry..."
She takes my hand, gives it a squeeze and then puts a padded restraint cuff around my wrist. I lift my other hand and let her put on the matched set. They are heavy. I eye the straps with trepidation as she hands them to Hobbes. He looks uncomfortable as he starts passing them over my chest, through the restraint cuffs and under the table. The Keeper straps down my legs.
"Hey, is all this really necessary?" I complain as the heavy straps are doubled and tightened. "I'm not Superman."
"Sez you," Hobbes jokes. "When you go Jeckyl on us, you're freakishly strong."
"Hyde," I correct. Hobbes flinches as if I said duck.
"Why?" he asks suspiciously.
"Not hide, Mr. Hyde. Doctor Jeckyl was the sane one, Mr. Hyde was the maniac," I say, trying to hide with a little banter how helpless and panicky I feel. I hate being restrained. I mean I know most people wouldn't care much for it, but I really hate it. I always have. For a thief, you'd think I'd get used to the occasional set of handcuffs and the occupational hazard of being incarcerated, but not me. The thing is-- a thief can't think about that part of the job. The main reason I loved what I did was the freedom from convention, the freedom period. I never could stand being tied down in any way.
Since I became the invisible man, I've been put in a straight jacket, tied down to exam tables and handcuffed more times than I care to remember. I tried to keep this particular fear secret, afraid it would be one more thing they could use to control me. I'm scared, really scared and the panic only grows the longer I can't move.
[][][][][]
HOBBES
Christ, look at him. He's shaking like leaf and I can see he's scared. I've cinched the straps down tight. He won't be able to hurt himself or anyone else. Fawkes has no clue what a tough customer he is when he goes quick silver mad. It's enough to intimidate anyone and I've seen it up close and personal.
What the hell is going on anyway? The whole point of the tattoo and that monitor thingy is to keep this from happening. The Keeper's supposed to make sure it never comes to this.
I catch a strange look in her eye and a shiver of dark suspicion crawls down my spine. There's no way she could mean for Fawkes to go through this. She'd never hurt him on purpose, cuz that would be... that would be evil. Bobby Hobbes doesn't do evil. Aren't we supposed to be the good guys?
I like Claire. She's pretty, smart and she's a real sweet gal, but I know this game and how the players work. She's got to be much more than she seems. We all are. I just hope she's not hiding a sadistic streak.
I don't like to see people suffer. So it figures they partner me up with a guy wired for pain. Even if Fawkes didn't have the gland, he'd still be built to suffer, some people are just like that. They think too much, feel too much and they put themselves right in the path of the most pain.
He's a tough kid. If I'm a judge of nothing else, I'm a judge of that, and this kid is as tough as they come. So when the gland does its thing, not the invisible thing, but the pain thing, I know its for real and its bad. I've seen him fight it off and I've seen it take him down. I'm here to tell you that this guy has won my respect. I got no idea what the pain in his head is like and after seeing it put him through his paces, I don't want to know. The amazing thing is that it isn't the pain that scares him. He's scared of what he'll do when he goes nuts. He's scared of hurting people. I gotta respect that in a guy who could really do some damage if he wanted.
Course the pain ain't no picnic...
Fawkes arches up against the straps with a groan that becomes a howl. His head thrashes back and forth and I hold on worried he'll hurt himself.
"Get to work!" I yell at the Keep. "Make the damn shot!"
She gives me a look that could curdle milk. "Try to keep him as quiet as you can," she says and moves off. But I can't help but get the impression that she's unhappy I'm here.
Fawkes looks at me. He's eyes are bloodshot, not completely red but darkly veined with red. "Hobbes..." he says in a hushed voice. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
He looks away, sighs and glances back. "For whatever I might say or do when I lose it."
"No problem."
"Second thought maybe you should just gag me," he jokes weakly.
I grin. "Maybe."
His whole body arches against the straps and he screams. I do my best to steady him, but only the Keeper can help him now.
I look over to where she's working. It looks like she's doing stuff, but what do I know? I gotta believe she's as freaked out and upset for the kid as I am.
His eyes are red, but more than the color the way he stares is creepy. Its a malevolent, poisonous stare, red-hot but chilling.
"You toady bastard," Fawkes snarls. "Let me go."
"No way," I say firmly.
A steady stream of foul expletives pours from his mouth before I slap duct tape over it. My ears can take it but I don't know how much Fawkes remembers about what he says or does, and I'd like to spare him what I can.
Suddenly it occurs to me that I don't know what happens after this part. I've seen him lose it and he's always gotten his shots and returned to being normal. I've got no idea what happens if he doesn't get the counter agent.
He writhes on the table; muscles, veins and sinews looking like they're trying to struggle free of his body. I pull the tape off because I'm afraid he can't breathe. He drags in great gasps of air, panting like a runner. I'm not sure he even knows where he is.
"How much of this does he have to take?" I call out to the Keeper.
She looks up from her work. "I don't know. The pain should stop, but he'll be..."
"Crazy," I say.
"The longer it lasts the more danger there is of the condition being permanent."
"Permanent?" I repeat. I start babbling at her about how she has to make it so that doesn't happen. I have reasons. They're good reasons, some of them anyway.
"Hobbes," says a voice that doesn't sound much like Darien. Its like a whisper filtered through a rusty screen and it scrapes my nerves to hear it.
"I'm here for ya, Darien," I say.
He doesn't look at me. His face is turned away. "Help me," he whispers.
"I'm doing what I can, Pal." I swear.
"Let me go," he begs.
"No can do my friend," I answer firmly, but I try to make it as kind as possible. I am pretty sure its not really Darien I'm talkin to anyway. I mean it is, but it isn't. It's his evil, gland-gone-bad, self which we really should give a name.
"Then just kill me," he says in a stronger voice. His face turns and the blood red gaze searches my face. "Don't let them keep me like this."
Oh Lordy that's Fawkes talking and he means it. I think about all the places I've been and some of the things I've done that don't haunt my conscience because if I let them, I'd be crazier than this poor bastard strapped to the table. I lean down real close. "If it comes to it, I will," I promise. I hope its Fawkes I'm talking to. I hope he hears me and understands. Bobby Hobbes keeps his word, and though it cuts me up inside, I really mean it. I'd do it. I'd put him out and I'd take the consequences that came of killing my partner, cuz he's my partner and partners do for each other the kinds of things no one else could be expected to do.
"Thank you," he whispers.
I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. "But it won't come to that. The Doc is going to save the day just like she always does. So you hang in there."
His body is rigid and I can't see anything in his eyes but pure red. I think he's going to snarl something vile but his breath sorta hitches and his teeth clinch as he tries to hold back another spasm of pain. There's a change in his voice, a low rasp to it that signals his bad self. "You're an idiot, Hobbes," he says.
"Tell me something I don't know," I quip. I don't really care what his evil twin has to say. It's none of it real anyway.
"She's working you. They're all working you," evil twin sneers. "You think you lucked into this job, but the truth is they hand picked you."
"That's right, because I'm damn good," I crow. Maybe I do care what he has to say after all.
He snarls. "Moron! They hand picked you because you fit some sort of profile they did on me. It's got nothing to do with you and everything to do with how they knew I'd trust you because you're too crazy and too dumb-loyal to be anything but genuine. What other guy would stick by me but a lunatic? What other guy would buy into the facade that my Keeper doesn't run this whole show. The official-the agency, they're all just window dressing. She's the real deal. She's the boss."
He's yelling by the time he's finished, pulling against the straps with all his might. For a thin guy, Fawkes can be frighteningly strong. The table actually creaks and I can see the straps saw down into his skin. "She's doing this to me!" he screams. "Look at her! She's not working on the Counter Agent. She's just going through the motions."
"Why?" I ask. "Why would she do that?" He had me going until he started raving.
Tears stream out of his dark red eyes, furious tears of pain and rage. "Why does a scientist do anything?" he implores. "I'm just another lab rat. She wants to see what happens. God, she's my Keeper," he says in a defeated sort of way that I don't like because it sounds too much like Darien. "How can she keep me unless she knows exactly where I am? So she's got to put me in my place and make sure I stay there. And here I am," he sobs. "Where she wants me." He pulls at the restraints for emphasis.
"She's trying to help you, buddy." I try and reassure.
He snaps his teeth together and struggles briefly. "Help me?" he exclaims. "Do I look like a man being helped?" His back arches and he screams.
I leave him and go over to the Keep. She's got her head pressed into some sort of microscope thing. Its as if she hasn't heard anything that's gone on. I nudge her shoulder. "Tell me he's a raving psycho. Tell me he's totally delusional. Make me believe he's wrong and you're doing everything to help him." I am too close to losing it. I'm way too close to believing him.
She pulls back slowly from her work to look at me. Her eyes are streaming with tears. I feel kicked to the gut.
"I'm sorry. Geeze, I'm so sorry," I mumble. I mean it. I can't even tell you how much I mean it. She gives a little nod as if she's afraid to speak. I wish I could just crawl down a hole. Who knew the Keep could look so... heart broken.
I go back to Fawkes. "You can just shut up now," I warn.
He groans. "You are the perfect patsy," he accuses. "You believe her. Don't you? Don't you see that you're letting her do this to me. I thought you were my friend."
"I'm not your friend," I snap. "I'm Darien Fawkes' friend and you're not him."
"I'm glad," the man on the table says with a grin that the devil would be proud to own. "Darien Fawkes is a slave and a fool. He's always going to be. He doesn't have the guts to do what it takes to get what he really wants, what I want."
I widen my stance. "Oh yeah, and what is it that you want? I find it hard to believe the two of you could want the same thing." Cocky bastard. I don't even want to talk to him. Gives me the creeps to hear Darien talk like this. This isn't him. Isn't anything like him at all. This creature wants to kill us.
The eyes are wet and red and dark, like the heart of something. "Freedom," he says, caressing the word with his mouth. "I could get it, but he never will."
My mouth is dry. "Why is that?" I try to sound mocking.
"He cares about how he gets it and I don't."
[][][][][]
THE KEEPER
I'm pretty sure I've heard every word. I didn't think Darien could be so articulate under the influence of the quick silver madness. His astute observations are alarming. It would be worse if they ignited Hobbes' intense paranoia, but Hobbes' seems to have brushed Darien's ravings off. This is gratifying because I don't think we could replace Bobby this late in the game.
I take samples from Darien. It's interesting the changes in his chemistry. A byproduct of the QSM is a potent and very intriguing boost to the adrenaline system. He's increased strength is phenomenal. The strain on his heart is troubling, but its something to look into. If I could isolate the properties that allow for the great strength, the applications would be staggering.
I really thought the pain would dissipate as the madness progressed to its final stage. I now think that I don't know what the final stage is. It would seem the gland keeps making its demands at ever increasing levels. Poor bugger...
I was annoyed by Hobbes arrival, but it turns out to have been enlightening. Hobbes has a pronounced calming affect on Darien during the initial phase of the QSM. I hadn't realized that and it bothers me that I'll have to design some field tests.
The readouts on Darien were well worth the risks of the experiment. I have data here that will take weeks, possibly months to fully study. The gland has secreted a substance into his blood stream that I've never seen before. It isn't part of the original design and I have no idea what it does.
He seems calm now; calm for a murderous fiend. He'd be quite functional now if we could control him. I'd like to express Quick Silver from him now and force the gland into over production now that its built up to this level, but... well there are limits and though I'm quite sure Darien would survive, I'm not sure he'd forgive.
Hobbes would be problematic... Luckily he's so easy to manipulate. I honestly thought I was going to make him cry. I do admire him though and I never thought I would. There are qualities to Bobby Hobbes that we never anticipated. He has a strength...
I prepare the counter agent and move to Darien's side. He's exhausted and I can tell there will be bruises were the straps have been. He does something he has never done before, he tries to avoid the injection.
"No!" he shouts and struggles as much as he can. He tries to appeal to Hobbes. "Please, Bobby, don't let her do it! Let me quit. Let me beat this. She's keeping me hooked. Don't you see that?"
"This isn't like heroin, Darien," I explain patiently, more for Bobby's benefit then for the raving patient. "You can't beat this cold turkey."
He ignores me and concentrates on Bobby. "Please, Bobby."
Hobbes looks at me and asks, "Permanent?" harkening back to my earlier dire prediction.
"I don't know. I think so," I admit. I've got a horrible suspicion that Darien might somehow have a sense of something that I don't. Maybe there's some instinct telling him he can beat the addiction. He could be right and that would never do.
Hobbes holds Darien's arm still for me with a look of grim determination. Darien sobs and screams begging us not to do it, but I give him the shot. He winces hard and passes out as he does when his body reacts to the sudden surge of conflicting signals.
Hobbes starts to unstrap Darien but I stop him with a cautioning look.
Bobby seems startled and upset. He looks at Darien with worry and pulls up a chair to wait by his partner's side.
[][][][][]
HOBBES
I'm thinking too much. I know it, but can't stop. Evil Darien might be on to something, maybe a lot of things. I don't know. I'm not sure I want to know. I try to stop thinking about it.
The Keep moves off to clean up her lab stuff and put away the rest of the counter agent.
When I'm sure she's not looking, I loosen one of the straps that go over Darien's chest. Carefully I lift up his t-shirt. What I see doesn't make me happy.
"You are going to be feeling this, my friend," I mutter.
He comes to his senses slowly. When he's like this, he often wakes up not knowing where he is or what he's done.
I give him the quick run down. "You're in the lab. There wasn't any counter agent and we had to strap you down while the Keep made some more."
"Can you let me up?" he asks quietly. I can't tell how much he remembers but I'm hoping for both our sakes he'll pretend he doesn't even if he does. I got a bad feeling that there's a path here we shouldn't walking and I'm hoping he'll keep us off it.
I should wait for the Keep's okay, but I rush to get the straps off him. He can't hide the bruises on his wrists with just his t-shirt, but I pretend I don't see them.
The Keeper on the other hand isn't so protective of his pride. She rushes over with a couple of pills and a glass of water. "How are you feeling?" she asks.
"Like I've been hit by a truck," Darien quips with a groan. He takes the pills, swallows them and a drink of water.
I almost miss it, but Bobby Hobbes is nobody's fool. She keeps her hand out and a little moment of something meaningful passes between them. Making like its nothing, Darien presents his wrist. She checks his tattoo while he looks away, covering his reaction by taking another drink of water, but not before I catch a look in his eye.
I must have seen them play this little scene dozens of times and never noticed. I thought it was a doctor patient sort of thing, but its more than that. Its a power thing; who has it and who doesn't. Its his way of acknowledging that he doesn't. Its so subtle I almost missed it. She doesn't ever seem to demand it or even ask, but an ugly thought comes to me about why he does it. So he won't end up like he did today. Man O man that's an ugly thing to think!
I look at my partner. Its an even uglier way to live.
"You hungry?" I say as if my stomach wasn't rolling over in sickening contortions of sympathy and rage.
"Starved," he lies, as if he wasn't feeling just as bad or worse.
I watch as he pulls his leather jacket on. He's sore but the jacket hides the bruises. The Keeper is watching too with a look of sympathy and concern. Its genuine. I'm sure it is. We should invite her to come with us. It would be rude not to. But I don't say anything and neither does Fawkes.
I can tell he wants to get away from the lab in the worst way, maybe the Keep is included in that sentiment.
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DARIEN
Beer really cold beer, the kind with the foamy little chunks of frost floating in the golden suds. It felt good on the cuts in my mouth. I must have bit the inside of my cheeks or something. I avoided the sharp crispy tortilla chips even though they were still warm and salty.
I really was hungry by the time we left the agency. I'd eaten through two large entrees of Carne Asada, without coming up for much air. Hobbes rattled on about combat stories. They were actually good stories but I always pretend they don't interest me.
We don't talk about what just happened in the lab. He doesn't ask me what I remember and I wouldn't tell him if I did. It's better that way. I'm not exactly sure why, I'm just sure that it is.
I'm hurt all over. My ribs are the worst, its as if I got crushed in a vice. I stole a look at my chest while I was in the men's room. It looks like I was beaten with a baseball bat. I'm not sure how that happened, but I'm pretty sure it was the straps they tied me down with. I must have hurt myself struggling. I'd say something about it. I would have complained, but I know if Claire saw the damage, next time it would be the straight jacket and the rubber room. I'd rather have the bruises...
I remember concepts mostly, dark ones. They are still with me waiting to be explored. I remember Hobbes sticking by me in that infuriating inexorable tenacious way. I am glad of it. I don't even know the exact reason why, but its like he saved me from a drowning I don't remember.
Something must have happened. Hobbs has bought four rounds and not complained once. The world is getting that nice soft fuzzy edge as I down the icy beer. I grin at Hobbes and he grins back and launches into another long involved tale. This one features a camel and a Russian submarine.
My life, as it turns out, is full of surprises. There's the obvious oddities and there's this, that hanging out in an obscure Mexican dive with my insanely over-experienced partner is the one of the highlights.
The End