Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Neither Sanctuary nor any of its characters belongs to me.
AN: This is set in an AU in which the events of Magnus's "dream" in Pavor Nocturnus actually took place. So, um, you know what happens to everyone. And dear TPTB, next time just throw in one little reference, then I won't be tempted to make up an entire story like this.
Many thanks to tiwtin, the most encouraging and helpful beta a new writer could ask for. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
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In the Beginning
The afternoon is grey and silent, dark banks of clouds scudding along overhead in the brisk autumn wind. Buildings loom ominously; their broken windows gape like hungry maws in the perpetual twilight, wrought by mankind's last futile attempts to defend itself. The prophesied nuclear winter had never quite come to pass, but the northern climes have been ravaged for years by the retaliatory storms of an impugned Mother Nature.
The man moves among the wreckage as though born to it, slipping from shadow to shadow with all the dexterous prowess of the hunter. Yet there is a caution in his movements that suggests he is for once more concerned with being discovered than with discovering his prey. When the first distant sounds of conflict reach his ears, he freezes, melting even further into the gloom of a refuse-strewn alley. His teeth bare in an unconscious snarl, evidence of a war between the need to remain unseen and the far more primal urge to hunt and kill. After a brief hesitation, he continues forward, but with an even greater stealth and a lingering caress of the weapon holstered at his side.
Whatever Their quarry is—and the man, carried along in his berserker lust for blood and vengeance, is not particularly interested—They have it cornered in a wooden crate perched atop a rusting metal dumpster. Decayed wrappings swinging from their limbs like strips of rotting flesh, the creatures have formed a loose semicircle about it. He doesn't question why they haven't descended for the kill, doesn't stop to consider the fact that he's outnumbered half-a-dozen to one. Sighting dispassionately along the barrel of his now-drawn weapon, he aims at each cowled head in succession, and They fall silently to the earth. Then he turns away, smoothly resuming his course.
He spares no thought for Their erstwhile prey, until a final creature, less brave than its deceased comrades, launches itself from its hiding place for the opening of the crate. Light flares, a brilliant and blinding silver flame, and the creature falls backwards with a grating shriek to land awkwardly on the pavement below. The man dispatches it with a cursory blast from his weapon, and then turns to consider the dilapidated packing crate, his interest piqued. Anyone capable of that sort of defense either possesses the sort of weaponry no longer available outside the militia, or is themselves a formidable weapon.
That's why the tiny visage that emerges around the edge of the crate's opening startles him enough that he almost forgets to level the weapon at the child as it clambers monkeylike down from its refuge. Boy or girl, it's impossible to distinguish beneath the grime, and about six or seven years old, although the apparent malnourishment suggests that's an underestimate. In other words, it seems unlikely that the child's still uninfected.
"Don't come any closer. Did any of them touch you?"
"No."
"Are you sure? You'll get very sick if They've touched you, but I have medicine that will help you. I need to know whether you need some."
It's a lie, but an effective one, which has saved his life more than once in the past. There's no cure, but people will never admit they've been condemned to death unless they're offered a way to avert it.
"No, Sir. They never found me until today, and then I hid, and then you came."
"And the light?"
"Oh. I didn't mean to hurt it, Nana always said it was wrong to hurt anything, but I was so scared. I didn't know it could be so bright, usually it's just soft and pretty and warm. See?" The sphere of quicksilver flame that suddenly flickers into life within the child's palm does seem completely harmless.
As for the earlier defensive manifestation of that gift, he's more than familiar with the reality that no skill, inborn or otherwise, is inherently good or evil. But he doesn't have the time or inclination at present to get into an ethical discussion with a gradeschooler.
He studies the child before him for a heartbeat longer. He doesn't need the distraction, especially now, but maybe it's fate that he's met the kid—girl he thinks, considering the thin, elfin features and the filthy, threadbare dress—on today, of all days. Any other time, he'd point her back to her impromptu hovel, continue with his mission, and keep a weather eye out for any grateful rescuees attempting to follow him home. But today, he can give her the opportunity to escape this carnage once and for all.
"Alright. Listen, we need to get out of here before any more of Them show up. Only a few more blocks, then we'll be safe." He cocks his head, listening intently for a moment before catching sight of the tiny aircraft descending rapidly through the cloud cover. "In fact, I think that's our ride."
"Yes, Sir." She looks up at him, bright eyes seeking out his own; her hand reaches for his, forcing him to rapidly shove the weapon into its holster in order to accept it. "My name is Merry. What's yours?"
"Dr. Zimmerman, but you can call me Will if you like. And this," he pauses, looking down at the bundle strapped securely to his chest, "is Magnus. Now let's go, we have a plane to catch."
"Yes, Sir, Doctor Zimmerman. But where are we going?"
He glances down at the girl, who's practically running to keep up with his far longer strides. "We're going somewhere safe, Merry, where they never go. Somewhere very far away."
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Sitting around doing nothing is overrated, even if one's usual occupation involves the daily endangerment of life and limb. Or at least that's the decision Will's come to, after three days of enforced quarantine in the minimal accommodations they've been provided.
But he's been through this once or twice before, and he knows that it's standard procedure for new arrivals. He knows, too, that any attempt on his part to deviate from said procedure will be assumed to indicate infection, a threat to be swiftly eliminated. And he accepts that, conscious as he is of the utter catastrophe that would result should the plague be introduced to even one of these Arctic outposts. With so few uninfected left, it would be a devastating loss.
So when the helicopter had deposited Merry, Magnus, and himself in the snowfield next to the tiny, austere outbuilding, he'd efficiently ushered the girl inside and reassured her when the door was bolted from without. He hadn't seen the guards, but they'd certainly been punctiliously observant of their guests' state. Food had been delivered several times a day, and the first such delivery had been accompanied by bandages and antiseptic for the nasty laceration that slices deeply across the top of his shoulder. Unfortunately, the transition from plane to chopper hadn't been nearly as uneventful as he'd hoped, courtesy of his zombified friends. The girl had repaid him then, for her rescue, taking Magnus and running for their new transport without question, allowing Will to hold Them off until the pilot could take flight.
She'll do well here, he's realized. She's incredibly aware of her surroundings for a child of her age—eight and three quarters, she's informed him seriously—and possesses a sense of fearless curiosity surpassing that of almost anyone he's ever known. From what he can determine, she's lived for almost a year on the streets, a feat almost beyond his comprehension. Before that, she'd apparently resided with her grandmother in a location sufficiently rural to have escaped the notice of the hordes.
When the guards come for them, on the third day, Merry is predictably curious about their destination. So is Will.
"When will the director be able to see us?"
"Right away, Mr. Zimmerman." The guard grins at him conspiratorially, his face—where it's visible beneath the snow gear—red chapped from the wind. "Said he was quite pleased for a respite from the infernal paperwork."
Will gives a short bark of laughter at that, and Merry takes the opportunity to grasp him by the hand, pulling gently to get his attention.
"Where are we going, Dr. Zimmerman?" No matter how many times he's suggested that she call him Will, she persists in the use of his more formal title.
"To visit an old friend of mine. But please, Merry, I know you're very excited, but try to calm down." Now that they've entered the labyrinthine corridors of the outpost itself, the girl's practically skipping at his side, a more typical measure of youthful vivacity restored by three days of good food and restricted activity.
"Yes, Sir. Nana always said that it was important to dress up and be polite when you went visiting, 'cause you had to be respectful. We already did the dressing up part." She tugs at the frayed hem of her dress, cleaned—like herself—courtesy of the outbuilding's tiny shower. "So that means I only have to remember the polite part. Right?"
"Exactly. Polite and calm." Will eyes her meaningfully as one of their escorts knocks perfunctorily on the door outside of which they've halted.
"Mr. Tesla? Guests are here, should we send them in?"
The reply's inaudible, but the guard gestures for Will to enter and so he does, shepherding the girl in front of him. The room they find themselves in is sparsely furnished and obviously fulfills the dual functions of office and personal quarters, judging by the narrow bed tucked in one corner. But it's the man occupying the chair behind the desk before them that instantly draws Will's attention.
"Ah, you made it, I see. Although you apparently managed to get into trouble on your way here. Again." The spark of humor in the eyes roving over Will's disheveled figure leaves no doubt in his mind that the other man's aware of how significant an understatement that is.
Then the eyes flick to the precious bundle slumbering on his shoulder, and they darken again, a clear winter sky chased with storm clouds.
"I heard about Kate. My condolences." And astoundingly enough, Will's convinced of the sincerity of those words, no matter how impossible he'd have deemed them a mere handful of years before.
Then he's distracted from the still powerful magnetism of that gaze by a sudden flurry of movement at his side, but by the time he comes to his senses, it's too late to grasp for anything but empty air.
"Hello, Sir. My name's Merry." Polite so far, if somewhat too exuberant for Will's liking. "Are you a monster too, Sir?"
Damn and blast. Will cringes, both at the content of the question and the fact that she's putting it to the man in front of him, for God's sake. But either all the months around the outpost's children have taught Tesla some restraint, or Victorian training in etiquette is good for something besides carrying on polite conversation at tea parties. In any event, he doesn't startle or react with any visible distaste, instead canting himself slightly in his chair to face the small child tugging on his sleeve.
"Why do you ask that?" The man sounds genuinely curious.
"Because I'm a monster, and Dr. Zimmerman said that there were others like me here."
That evokes a response, in the form of an arched eyebrow, and Will cringes again. This time it's because he's anticipating the lecture he's going to be receiving sometime before he leaves, on the necessity of instilling in young abnormals a proper appreciation for their unique talents.
"A monster? That sounds quite serious. I don't suppose you'd be willing to demonstrate?"
"Um. Okay. But only if you promise not to be scared or mad or anything."
"You have my word." It's a promise delivered with a solemnity and a seriousness that almost makes Will smile. Genuinely. But he hasn't done that in so long that he's forgotten how, and it's a transient impulse, easily suppressed.
Merry nods with a mirrored earnestness, and cups her tiny hands before her. When the silver balefire flickers to life within them, casting fleeting shadows on both their faces, Tesla smiles.
"I see." He nods gravely, and brings his own loosely fisted hand up opposite her own. "But you are not a monster, little one. What you have been given is a gift, although it comes with a certain responsibility that you may chose to assume or not, as you will. Dr. Zimmerman was quite correct about one thing, though."
The sparking, coruscating sphere of blue-white electricity floating benignly above his now open palm sends shivers down Will's spine, but Merry has no knowledge of its more dangerous uses.
"There are others like you here. Although, no, you mustn't touch, please. I'm sorry. May I hold yours?"
The little girl appears somewhat abashed at his rebuke, but appears reassured when Tesla, hands now empty, graciously accepts the quicksilver radiance that she pours carefully into them.
"Beautiful. And very useful when one goes exploring in the kitchens, in search of a midnight snack, I should think?"
She grins mischievously at that, her face lighting with an inner radiance that rivals that of the balefire still glowing in his cupped hands.
"Speaking of kitchens, I don't suppose you'd like to pay a visit to ours? And perhaps the good Doctor would be so kind as to let me have a look at that scratch?" He glances pointedly at the blood-stained bandage around the shoulder not currently occupied by Magnus's sleeping form, and Will stops himself from cringing yet again. Barely.
Merry's a smart child, though. Brilliant, really, to have stayed alive so long on the streets, and she frowns when she sees Tesla reach for the cane that's been leaning out of the way against the ancient wooden desk. Will's just grateful that he doesn't need to lean any more heavily on the desk to stand than he did last time. If things aren't getting any better, at least they're not getting any worse.
She lets him take her hand, but doesn't move with him as he takes the first step towards Will and the door.
"What's wrong with your leg?"
"Ah—bad knee. Tends to happen when you get to be my age." The smile is there, but this time it doesn't reach his eyes.
Merry seems to have noticed that, too. "Did They do that to you?"
"Yes."
And that's the first falsehood he's spoken to her, at least as Will sees it. He was there, after all, when the team sent on that mission had straggled home to the Sanctuary, half their members lost to a military airstrike launched prematurely. They should have seen the writing on the wall, should have refused any further joint missions with the armed forces. But they hadn't. So Magnus had gone off and gotten herself killed, and Tesla hadn't been with her because he'd practically had his leg cut off at the knee by shrapnel in the earlier debacle. Shouldn't have mattered in the long run, of course, with his miraculous vampiric regenerative powers and all, but they'd failed him then.
And Will knows, with a certainty that he doesn't possess about a lot of things these days, that it's because losing Magnus—Helen—had broken Tesla, as surely as it had broken John Druitt. Whatever physical damage that remained unhealed once they'd learned of Magnus's fate is simply a manifestation of a far deeper injury, but one of the spirit rather than the flesh. They hadn't left him crippled; he'd done that to himself.
Merry and her new friend have crossed the room while Will's been lost in his memories. Tesla's staring fixedly at the warmly swaddled bundle on his shoulder, and the slate blue eyes hold curiosity and sadness and a bleak sort of longing when they flicker briefly to meet his own.
"What's his name?"
"Magnus. Magnus Zimmerman."
"She would have been honored."
Will nods his agreement, but as always his memories of his old mentor are bittersweet. He misses her, of course, her unyielding strength and wisdom and compassion. But he can't help by hate her, just a little, for leaving all of them cast adrift and damaged beyond repair in the nightmare their world has become.
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Nikola's not certain when he began to think of this as home, but it's perhaps the first place to become so since the small, neatly whitewashed cottage in which he spent his childhood. The domesticity of that abode, set against the distant mountains' verdant backdrop, could be no more different from the dimly lit and utilitarian corridors of this outpost isolated in the midst of Arctic wasteland. But nevertheless, he finds himself playing the conscientious host to his companions, pointing out the hydroponics gardens, the workshops, even the classrooms with an odd, secret sort of pride. These last evoke a particularly enthusiastic response from the child who has yet to release her hold on his free hand, her tiny palm warming his own.
"Oh, Sir, can I really go to school and learn to read and everything, if I want? Nana told me all about school and books. She said they were magic, and would take me even more places than I could imagine, even though she said I have a really big imagination."
In her excitement, the girl's feet literally leave the floor, as she swings ebulliently between the two adults holding her hands. She doesn't weigh much, far less than an eight year old should, but it's almost enough to cause his leg to buckle. Zimmerman notices the stumble and frowns, preparing to reprimand Merry for her outburst. But Nikola deters him with a shake of his head, and the man chooses to respond to his young charge instead.
"Of course you can, Merry. And you'll get to meet lots of other people your age, too, just like I told you."
For all the fact that he's a psychiatrist, and consequently rather handicapped in his interactions with other humans, Zimmerman seems to have made a genuine connection with the girl. Then again, all of the survivors have been irrefutably altered by their fight, rendered somehow more raw and more emotionally naked than their earlier, civilized selves.
"In fact, perhaps you'd like to be introduced to the other children right now? It's too late for classes today, but they should be serving the evening meal." The girl's face is suddenly shadowed with trepidation, her feet shuffling reluctantly over the floor that seemed unable to hold her only minutes ago, but Nikola's slight smile seems to encourage her. "Don't worry, many of them have special gifts, too. Although please try not to initiate a mass demonstration of them, like our last newcomer. We've only just finished unsticking the dinner trays from the ceiling."
"Okay." Merry giggles softly, her fear forgotten.
"Good, then. Here we are."
Merry straightens her dress, little hands tugging at the edges of fabric far too tattered and threadbare to ever quite be presentable. Her chin lifts slightly, and she faces the door to the mess with a quiet decorum and poise that makes Nikola's heart clench. With her straight, mousy brown locks and thin, heart-shaped face, she looks nothing like Helen, but in that instant there is no one she reminds him of more.
When the door swings open to reveal a sea of children's faces, pale from lack of sunlight and thin but far from undernourished, Merry's gaze does not waver. She does glance once to Zimmerman before steadily walking forward to greet her new crèchemates, her mien serious but open. Nikola doesn't begrudge the other man his opportunity to reassure the girl. It's the reality, however regrettable, that within a few weeks Zimmerman will have faded to nothing more than a dimly recalled and idealized savior in her memories.
For all the children here, he himself has become the most trusted of confidants, the one to whom they come with their childhood woes and triumphs and dreams. But they remind him so much of the little wild creatures that he befriended as a boy, devoid of the cruelty and deception and innuendoes of adults, that it's been a role easy for him to assume. He has no friends among the grown-up humans and abnormals that inhabit this last bastion of civilization—though they respect him, he thinks they regard him as something of an eccentric and unsociable figure—but the children have ensured his continuing interest in life, if not necessarily living.
Zimmerman's a friend of sorts, too, even if he remains a painful reminder of a life years gone. And the man looks as though he's gotten into a rough-and-tumble scrap, albeit not for the first time and assuredly not for the last. He's certainly not a fit sight for the outpost's younger members, so Nikola turns to block the entrance before Zimmerman can follow the girl inside.
"I think it would be best if you were to come with me to the infirmary. I can have some food sent there, but I'd rather you not keel over from blood loss or gangrene or what have you before you eat."
Zimmerman has the audacity to leer roguishly at him, as though he had not a care in the world.
"Why, I didn't know you cared, Tesla. I'm touched."
"I simply don't want someone to have to cart your miserable carcass through the halls. Let's go, you can leave the boy at the crèche on the way."
Of course, Zimmerman being a psychiatrist, he's constitutively incapable of keeping his mouth closed for more than two minutes, which two minutes he's spent dissecting the motives and psychological state of any living being within sight. Nikola's therefore not surprised when the man attempts to engage him in conversation as soon as they've deposited the boy—Magnus, and Nikola's going to have to discipline himself to say that name without immediately summoning decades worth of memories—with the caregivers responsible for the outpost's youngest children.
"I know I had the privilege of being included on the grand tour you gave Merry, but how have things really been going here?"
But the glowing picture that Nikola had painted for the girl hadn't been much of an exaggeration, albeit one short on technical details.
"Well, actually. They've had significant success with implementing the new nutrient dense biovars, and the engineers have been able to increase the efficiency of multiple key systems. The end result has been a vastly reduced loss of circulating biomass and improved health among the residents. The reactors seem to be functioning without any decreased output or undesirable radiation."
Zimmerman seems a bit overwhelmed by the technical details himself, but it doesn't prevent him from expressing his now characteristic sarcasm.
"So, in other words, you're growing superplants in fertilizer that I don't really want to know about, and you're pretty certain that they're not going to turn into a greenhouse full of Audreys anytime soon."
Nikola might not appreciate the humor. But he doesn't have the energy to protest its use and, besides, he can understand Zimmerman's need for it. He gestures at the infirmary bed next to which they have arrived.
"How succinct. Now, please get on the bed and let me take a look at that arm."
There are no anesthetics, local or otherwise, but Nikola hardly expects mere excruciating pain to deter Zimmerman from continuing his chatter. He leans one hip against the bed on which the other man has obligingly parked himself—it's late, and they've turned down the heat for the night, and his knee hurts—and begins to carefully but thoroughly debride the deep laceration over Zimmerman's shoulder.
"I'm having my arm sutured by an electrical engineer. Should this concern me?" The other man regards him with eyes dilated with pain, but his voice is steady.
"Hmm. Asks the psychiatrist turned militia leader. We've all become quite adept at performing multiple specialist duties here. It's the only practical solution to having such a limited and largely mortal population."
Zimmerman just nods in response to that, and Nikola revels in the brief silence that follows. But his patient's next statement falls like an exploding missile into that void, and he recoils physically from it.
"Have you begun working on your own projects again?"
Damned psychiatrists, with their psychoanalyses and their confounded questions. Nikola's normally steady hands jerk the suture material so hard that Zimmerman hisses, but the man's infuriatingly tenacious gaze remains locked with Nikola's own.
"No."
And Nikola's the first to avert his eyes, because Zimmerman knows that he hasn't worked on any project of his own since Helen died. His contributions to the pursuits of the scientists and engineers comprising many of the outpost's adult inhabitants have been invaluable, of course. But they both know that numerous aspects of its infrastructure would benefit from a more personal application of Nikola's unique experience and innovation. And his true plans had always focused on the creation of a renaissance utopia, freed of mankind's interminable squabbling and dedicated to achieving new heights of philosophy and science. Admittedly, they're not the sort of goals easily achievable when civilization itself is under siege. But that never would have stopped him, had they not lost Helen—his inspiration, the only other scientific mind capable of appreciating and abetting the most visionary of his ideas.
"She wouldn't have wanted you to give up your work, on her account."
"I scarcely think she'd have supported your decision to turn your two month old son, who you named in her honor, over to complete strangers to raise, simply because you feel compelled to satisfy your death wish as soon as possible."
Nikola shouldn't feel as pleased as he does when Zimmerman's face darkens in anger. After all, the man's probably the only being left alive—other than the children—that actually cares about him beyond his efficacy as an administrator. But he hasn't felt emotion in so long that Zimmerman's probing has evoked a response far more painful than it should, and he wants the other man to suffer, too.
"I don't have a death wish. I'm out there killing Them, defending everyone in this outpost and all the others." Zimmerman practically growls at him as he shrugs his torn shirt and jacket over the pristine white bandage that covers his newly sutured wound.
"Killing them, yes, but to what purpose? It's not as if the remaining militia is sufficient to deter them from descending on the northern outposts, if they so chose. But they haven't, and we're relatively certain that they'd be unable to survive exposure long enough to locate any of the settlements, even if they became aware of their existence."
Nikola shakes his head resignedly, his earlier emotion already exhausted. But Zimmerman crowds him backwards, forcing him to step unsteadily away from the instruments he's preparing for sterilization. The other man's dangerous glower lends him a feral air, and it's a measure of how much Zimmerman's changed that he resorts so readily to physical intimidation.
"And if you're wrong, if the presence of the militia has kept them from seeking out new prey? For every one we kill, there's no longer a newly converted one to take its place. It's a war of attrition, but we're slowly cutting into their ranks." Zimmerman pauses, scowl deepening, before abruptly pivoting and striding towards the door. "As for Magnus, he's your responsibility now."
He's already gone by the time Nikola responds.
"Yes, but you're cutting them down too slowly. And dying too quickly in the process. And I will assume your responsibility for the boy, but only because his father is likely to be long dead by the time he's old enough to know him." He pauses, features drawn briefly into a contemptuous grimace. "It's not as if I'm good for much else anymore, in any case."
His tone is bitter, but he's too tired and emotionally numb for even self-recrimination. Plunging the infirmary into darkness with the flick of a switch, Nikola disappears into the cold, shadowed corridors of the place he now calls home.
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Will's learned to run quietly. These days, it's one of many skills essential to surviving for any appreciable length of time on the streets. What he's not used to is the skin on his hand sticking to the freezing metal of a support strut as he careens neatly off it, and he curses at the burning sensation in the offending appendage.
After that, he's almost afraid to touch the dark and likely just as cold door to Tesla's room. But Will's the one, after all, who's already been roused out of bed in the middle of the night on account of the message from Central Control. He figures he might as well pass on the favor. Apparently, they've lost contact with the militia in Boise, and they're launching a demolition airstrike immediately. He'll be able to catch a ride to Old City—or at least a nearby militia base—with one of the escort craft.
Will just wishes that he'd had more time to spend with Magnus. He wishes that he'd had just a little longer to watch Merry blossoming into the child she was meant to be. But he's had over a week, with no available transports heading in the direction he needs to go. It's been a far longer respite than he'd ever expected.
Gritting his teeth against the biting cold, he pounds the side of his fist against the smooth metal. "Tesla, it's Zimmerman. I need to come in, there's been a message from CenCon."
Will's expecting an invitation to enter, even if it's not a warm one. The response he receives instead shocks him into immobility.
"No." Tesla's voice is barely recognizable, oddly muffled and full of anguish. "No, don't. Don't go with them."
Will's regained enough presence of mind to place his hand against the door, preparing to push it open. But he's still too stunned by what he's hearing to register the searing cold against the skin of his palm.
"Tesla?"
"No, you can't go. Helen!" Will doubts anyone else hears the hoarse scream, with the thickness of outpost's bunker-like walls, but he certainly can. In the deathly stillness that follows, he can hear his own heart beating, too, blood pounding in his ears and throbbing in his chilled fingers.
When the frigid temperature in the corridor snaps him out of his reverie and he finally pushes open the door, he half anticipates things to be strewn about the room, or its occupant to be completely hysterical, or something dramatic. Instead, it looks utterly normal, from what Will can see in the dim blue light cast by a single electric lamp. The lamp's perched on a table next to the narrow iron bed in the room's corner, and the object of his concern's sitting calmly on its thin mattress, as unruffled as if crazed psychiatrists were always bursting into his room in the wee hours of the morning.
It's not until Will moves closer that he can verify the truth of what he's just heard in Tesla's haggard, grey features. And it's not until he's taken a seat next to the other man—carefully, because he doesn't feel like being exsanguinated or electrocuted for encroaching on Tesla's personal space—that Will can feel the him trembling.
"You look like shit."
"How eloquent. How did you ever manage to finish a medical degree with that vocabulary?"
But Will's seen too many horrors to be deterred by the verbal affront, and he's coming to the realization that this may be his last opportunity to fix the man sitting next to him. The man who's probably been slowly falling apart for years, though Will never recognized it. And the one who's now responsible for the safety and wellbeing of Will's son.
He doesn't have time to be gentle.
"I heard, don't try to deny it. Listen, I know you don't want to hear this, but you need to move on. I know she was important to you, but she's gone."
Tesla's reply is low and threatening, practically snarled, and his eyes capture Will's and hold them without mercy. "You know nothing, Doctor. She was the only woman I ever loved."
Then, just as suddenly, he averts his gaze, and Will's left breathless, the prey released by its predator and mystified as to why.
"And they failed her, those worthless, incompetent humans. It was their duty to protect her, and they failed." Tesla's still staring fixedly into the shadows, but his voice hisses with distaste and his hands are clenched white-knuckled in his lap. "I was better than them, I should have been able to protect her. But I failed too. I wasn't able to save her."
Internally, Will cringes at the despair and self-disgust that imbue that proclamation, but they only strengthen his resolve. When it becomes clear Tesla's not going to continue, Will takes a deep breath and tries to resume the long-derelict role of the counselor that he'd been in his other life. Steeling himself, he tries to forget the violent and bloody war that's raging outside these walls, in order to focus on a far more personal battlefield.
"Look. I'm not going to give you some clinical psychobabble about the issues that you're clearly not dealing with right now, because I know they'd never find my body if I did. But the reality is that you do need to stop hiding from them and actually deal with them."
"Don't you think I've tried? Tried to forget. And every time I succeed, I hear or smell or see something that reminds me of her." The self-disgust is still there, but now Tesla's angry. It's a far cleaner emotion, and one that Will's not displeased to see.
"And, sometimes, you're glad that you can't forget, because you're frightened that forgetting will diminish what you had with her, somehow?" The startled, self-conscious look that Tesla shoots him is confirmation enough. "Yeah. But forgetting's not the answer, and, frankly, it's not really the issue either. You don't have to forget her, but you do need to force yourself to actually start living your life again."
Will raises his hand, forestalling comment.
"No, don't interrupt. Even if you won't do it for your own miserable, pathetic sake, there is something that you can do it for. Do it for all the humans and abnormals that she gave her life in service to. Her work was everything to her, and she would have wanted someone to ensure it continued. You can do that, for her."
Will's not certain that he's gotten through to the other man, he's so still. But he'd be a hypocrite if he didn't give it one final try. Magnus truly would have been devastated had she known her work had been abandoned with her death. Just as she would have been deeply troubled—he grudgingly admits, despite the lingering resentment at her loss—had she known how it would irretrievably shatter all those who loved her.
Then Tesla nods, and a mangled sound—half laugh, half choked off sob—escapes him.
"Even before the Sanctuary, before the Source blood, she was so dedicated to helping those no one else would. Once, at Oxford, she found out that some of the younger students—the poorer ones, and those from other countries—were being denied access to the labs. She was so righteously indignant, so determined to stop the older students from intimidating them, though her own position was tenuous at best…" His voice rises and falls, weaving a colorful and poignant tapestry of the exploits of four young men—thinkers, dreamers, scientists—and the woman who captivated them all with her scientific acumen and her indomitable spirit.
It was a tale years in its genesis, and it continues in its telling long after the lamp gutters and dies, its current unreplenished. In the dark, Will leans against the cold, rough surface of the concrete wall and listens to memories of the mentor who redefined his life. And when the other man finally falls silent, then he remains in the dark and decides that Helen Magnus was a remarkably fortunate woman. After all, she's going to live on, revered and loved, in the memories of a man who may well still be here at the end of the world.
Will thinks that Tesla's fallen asleep, when he's jarred from his introspection by a quiet voice.
"You could stay here. The outpost would benefit from your psychiatric training. It's one of the few fields I find myself completely unable to fathom."
"You seem to have surpassed yourself, then, with the children." Will can't help the slight smile that crosses his face at the memory of Tesla seated in one of the mess's uncomfortable plastic chairs, surrounded by an enthralled flock of raptly listening youngsters.
Then the smile slips away, lost in the darkness. "I can't stay. Call it a death wish or not, your choice, but I truly think the militia remains a necessity. And I can't ask others to take on that fight if I'm unwilling to do so myself."
"Stubborn. She trained you well." Tesla doesn't specify who she is, he never does, but Will understands anyway. "Don't worry, we'll take care of Merry, and Magnus."
Will feels the other man shift slightly, feels eyes seeking his own though he doesn't turn to meet them.
"Someday you'll have to tell him her story."
"Yeah, she deserves to be remembered, especially by him. Although I won't expect him to live up to his namesake, that's a big job for a little kid." Will falls silent, and when he speaks again it's with an almost tangible solemnity. "I don't think I'll be the one to tell him that story, though. Make it a good one, when you do."
"I will." Tesla's reply, though soft, is just as solemn, and it reverberates in the darkness with the weight of a vow. "She won't be forgotten. And neither will you."
Will doesn't leave until dawn, when he wakes with a terrible crick in his neck from sleeping against a wall but feeling more rested—and far more at peace—than he has in a very long time.
-------
When Nikola wakes, the room is warm—or as warm as it ever gets, at any rate—but he still feels cold. It's incredibly disorienting, because warmth means that the day has begun in the outpost, and he's always up well before daybreak when the nightmares come, having never regained anything more than a fitful doze. That he's registering the fact that someone was next to him when he fell asleep is more disturbing still, until he remembers Zimmerman's role in last night's events.
Sometimes his hyperawareness of his surroundings can be an annoyance, but he's grateful when he's able to dredge up a vague memory of Zimmerman shouting something about a message from CenCon. It's easy to surmise that some form of transport has been arranged, and that the man's already gone back to his misguided, if perhaps not entirely futile, little war. Nikola has a feeling—if he were a superstitious man he'd call it a premonition, but prescience is not his gift and there's no room for superstition in science—that he won't be seeing the other man again for a very long time.
One more of the last few, bedraggled links tethering him to his old life, gone. It should be depressing, should make him want to curl up under the blankets like a little child and wish the world would simply leave him alone. But there's a subtle, invigorating current thrumming in his veins, and for the first time in recent memory he's curious as to what new experiences today conceals.
But, before he can explore this sensation further, Nikola has responsibilities to fulfill. Breakfast and morning ablutions quickly dispensed with, he addresses the thousand-and-one new administrative minutiae that have found their way to his desk, and then he makes his way to the labs. Several of the engineers have to be talked down from using the metal infrastructure of the outpost as a means of disseminating heat, since Nikola prefers not to have anyone fried to a crisp when they accidentally brush up against a superheated pillar. Honestly, he knows that Helen always disapproved of eugenics, but he really could make some considerable improvements, if these are humanity's best and brightest. At least the chemists and the botanists seem to be playing nicely, and the materials scientists have stumbled on a fascinating new polymer capable of unidirectional heat absorption.
By the time Nikola returns to the refuge of his room-cum-office, it's late enough that the temperature in the corridors has plummeted again, and he's leaning far more heavily on the cane than when he left this morning. But someone's left a cart with the equipment he requested just inside the door, and they've left a covered dish of some sort of vegetable stew sitting next to it.
He's scarcely taken the first bite—bland, but palatable, and warm—when the door creaks open and the little girl's face peaks cautiously around its edge.
"Mr. Nikola? May I come in?" When he nods his acquiescence, she does, hands fisting nervously in her new jumper and eyes looking anywhere but at him. "Is Dr. Zimmerman gone? Truly?"
Nikola's concern at her uncharacteristic anxiety morphs into a quickly suppressed anger. He's never been particularly adept at discerning the true measure of a person's integrity, but he'd thought Zimmerman cared enough for the girl not to traipse off without even a backward glance.
He realizes that he's sadly underestimated the child's astuteness when she cringes and jumps to Zimmerman's defense.
"Oh no, Mr. Nikola, please don't be mad at him! He told one of the teachers that he was leaving and that he said goodbye, she said he didn't want to wake me. I just hoped she was wrong, which is silly because teachers don't lie, or that he's coming back soon. 'Cause I miss him, but I have you and Magnus and the teachers and my friends. But I think he misses Magnus, and maybe everyone else too, and he doesn't have anyone if he's really, truly gone."
She pauses, breathless, and the imploring look in her eyes makes him wonder how Zimmerman could ever have left her, moral conviction in the righteousness of his crusade notwithstanding. Sighing, he waves her over, lifting her to perch carefully on the edge of the desk beside his chair.
"Yes, Merry, he's truly gone. I don't know when he's coming back." He's not going to offer her false hope. Children—especially, he suspects, this child—are far too intuitive to mislead for long, and he wants her to trust him. "He does miss Magnus, and you, but there's something very important that he has to do."
"More important than staying with us?"
"No, not more important than staying with you. He's doing it for you, to keep you both safe. And I know he'd be pleased that he's important to you, that you want him to return soon. But he also wouldn't want you to spend so much time missing him that you don't have time for anything else. Do you understand?"
If this conversation weren't of such great consequence to the girl, Nikola thinks he might be hiding in a corner laughing hysterically at the irony of repeating Zimmerman's advice to the cute little stray the man dragged home. Merry considers him questioningly, brow furrowed with the intensity of her thought, but then she bobs her head resolutely.
"Yep. 'Cause, if I spend all my time missing him, and don't learn things in class and help with chores and visit Magnus, then that would be sort of ungrateful, wouldn't it? If he's gone and missing us, just so we'll be safe?"
"Precisely. You're a very smart young girl."
Merry bobs her head again. "That's what the teachers say. When they're not saying I'm 'pre-co-cious' or 'in-sat-iable' or too curious for my own good. I try not to be so curious, 'cause Nana said that curiosity isn't good for anything but finding trouble, but sometimes I can't help it."
Nikola has to laugh softly at the frustration writ plain across her features.
"Never stop being curious, Merry. The only thing that makes this world of ours an exciting place to live is the fact that we don't understand it. Fortunately, we probably never will, in its entirety. Any other questions?"
"No, Sir. Thank you, Mr. Nikola." She smiles happily at him, her childish features lighting with their usual intense exuberance.
"You're welcome. Now, don't you have homework that requires attending to?"
Merry slides towards the edge of the desk, legs dangling until she reaches the lip and abruptly slips to the ground. Then she shakes her head, her straight, light brown hair flying back and forth.
"No, Sir. Already done. It was awfully simple."
Nikola raises a dubious eyebrow at that. The girl's already taking classes with her age group, despite the minimal knowledge of arithmetic and reading she possessed on her arrival. And, as intimately as he'd been involved in their development, he's well aware that none of the classes taught at the outpost can be considered easy.
"Has it been completed correctly?"
"Yes, Sir." Her confidence assures him that she's not exaggerating, and he's momentarily at a loss for how to proceed.
Until his gaze falls on the cart beside the door, and the equipment it carries. It's been a long time since he worked with an assistant, but the girl obviously possesses the mental acuity and the innate inquisitiveness essential to a good scientist. And she reminds him of Helen.
Who'd be having a good chuckle at his expense, were she to see him with a pupil after all those disparaging remarks about her own protégé.
"Hmm. Well, we can't have you getting bored, can we? Tell me, Merry, what do you know about anti-gravity?"
It's a question that has her completely flummoxed, although the attentive concentration on her face is strangely heartwarming.
"There's no such thing, Mr. Nikola."
"Ah, not yet. Now, the most important rule to remember when working with this sort of equipment is to keep safety foremost in your mind…"
-------
Concealed in one of the habitat's last secluded corners and far from any oft-trod thoroughfare, the building lies enshrouded in darkness, its unadorned façade limned only by the stark and distant radiance of the Arctic stars. The man standing before it leans slightly on a simple wooden cane, though the only external signs of his age may be found in the silver at his temples and the shadows that haunt his eyes. Completely still, he nevertheless manages to convey a sense of patient expectation. The city stretched before him waits also, dim and shuttered, but protected from the cold and snows of the desolate tundra encircling it by the great dome arching overhead.
When the ground trembles and the first great ship launches into the night, a beacon of light in the darkness, he doesn't move. Only his eyes follow it, and the others that come after, until they are no more than specks of fire in the heavens, lost amidst the constellations wheeling overhead.
Then he turns and enters the building behind him. He doesn't bother to lock the doors.
The interior is as black as the night without, but it doesn't brighten at his entrance. Unlike almost every other inhabitant of this city, or the others like it, he's always declined the cranial implants that link the city's denizens to her and allow them to manipulate her inanimate components with a thought. But the contents of this room—so like the one in which he began this journey, a millennium ago—are so well-known, that he scarcely requires sight to navigate them. Stopping just short of the neatly made bed, he leans the cane—its handle as smooth and familiar as the hand of an old friend—against the nearby table.
Carefully he lies back against the thin mattress, fingers interlaced over his sternum. He's never been more alone; when he realized this day was coming, he began to gently disentangle himself from the few ties that still bound him to the living. But, in truth, it's been longer than even he can remember since he's felt this much pleasure in simply existing.
His promise, after all, has been fulfilled. Humans and abnormals have co-existed, each completely aware and tolerant of the other, for centuries now. Together, they have built a society in which thought and science flourish, attaining heights of technology unimaginable in Earth's previous civilizations. Though they dare not encroach upon the ruins to the south, domed cities like this one dot the northern latitudes, each premised upon self-sustainability in an environment once considered too hostile for habitation. And, their populations at last recovered enough to exceed the limited resources available, humans and abnormals have taken the first step towards life among the stars.
He closes his eyes, and, when sleep comes, he dreams of a little girl with a brilliant smile, of a young man who dedicated both life and death to helping others, and—above all—of a woman who long ago befriended and inspired him.
He never wakes.