NOTE: THIS IS THE SECOND HALF OF THE LAST CHAPTER REPOSTED AS A NEW CHAPTER, because the last chapter was 10,000 words which is insane, so.... Sorry for the repost.

Suggested music:

Suggested Beverage: Red wine

C h a p t e r 1 2

S l e e p O n l y S o D e e p l y

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0o0o0 Topside, Approximately 9pm 0o0o0

The boy who didn't call himself Artemis walked through a domed hallway so large that the intricately patterned ceiling above him, trickling with condensation, disappeared in darkness at it' highest point. The floor was tiled black, or a green so dark it looked black, and glittered like the great body of a serpent. The air was cold and moist, dampening his hair until it hung into his face. Long lines of florescent lights stretched both in front of and behind him. The buzzing sound they made and the soft trickling of water at a distance created a subtle percussion to guide his steps. The boy could feel, more than hear, great fans somewhere overhead laboring to supply to supply him with oxygen.

Rounding a corner, he came to a round set of wooden double doors with brass handles. The handles were so cold when he took hold of them that his hand prickled with pain. At his lightest touch, the door swung open to reveal a grand, round room. The walls were glistening white stone, and everything was lit by three yellow chandeliers. A mahogany banquet table took up most of the room.

Five AMN guards sat on either side of the table. One girl was curled up on her chair in only an oversized bathrobe, clutching a cup of warm liquid in one hand- hot chocolate or coffee. To her left was a woman with fine black hair, dark skin, and a dark red evening gown. To her right was a curt looking white man wearing a lab coat. Across from them were two men, both in uniform. One of them had spiky black hair and didn't look older than eighteen; the other had blonde hair cut in layers and aristocratic features set into a board scowl. At the head of the table, a sixth man swathed entirely in black cloth had his head down and his hands clenched on the armrests of his chair. No part of his body was bare.

"I apologize for the interruption," the boy who wasn't Artemis said. "I didn't expect to find council in order."

The man at the head of the table looked up. The lower half of his face was obscured by a dark cloth, and the upper half was shadowed by the lip of his hood so that nothing was visible of his skin or eyes. Three plastic tubes snaked up under the hood and disappeared into his cloak. The boy wasn't sure if the man was looking at him or not.

"Why come here, then?" Asked the woman in the evening gown. She was twirling a peacock feather fan in one hand, watching it as though the movements her own wrist inspired were something awesome.

"I need to speak with the Commander."

The cloaked man regarded the boy for a moment, then spoke softly in a voice that seemed to hold no emotion at all. "Very well," he said. "Whatever you want to say to me, you can say in front of your sisters and brothers."

"You replaced the Guard of Speed," he said.

The man in the lab coat waved one had through the air dismissively. The boy recognized the Doctor and resolutely did not narrow his eyes in distaste.

"Old news," the Doctor said. "The last Speed was a mess. Too many programs at once, just couldn't hold herself together quite right. These two are perfect. Think of the possibilities using two people for one guard might have! Oh, and welcome back. It was getting awfully boring around here without you."

The boy's eyes flickered to the Doctor, then quickly returned to the Commander. "The new Speed might be perfect, but they're also badly burned."

"Explain," the Commander ordered.

"I took control of this body directly after the quake and fulfilled the mission. Unfortunately, I was pursued upon leaving Haven by two of Artemis- my alter's- acquaintances, Vice Captain Holly Short and Captain Julius Root. Speed came to my aid, by were unprepared to face military weaponry. They're in the infirmary."

"I am disappointed."

"I'm sorry." The boy lowered his head. "I expected to have more time."

"There was no need to give you more time. You should have been able to carry out the mission without endangering your sisters in only a few hours."

"Come now," the Doctor said flippantly, grinning up at his Commander. "Cut Rust some slack." He glanced back at the boy and raised an eyebrow. "That is still your name, correct? Please tell me you haven't decided to change it again. So much paper work…"

"It's Nike, now," the boy, Nike, replied.

The Doctor groaned, but the girl in the bathrobe smiled at him then stuck out her tongue. "You choose the stupidest names. Sometimes I think we should have made you stick with Birdie. At least that's a boy's name."

Nike shrugged. "Call me what you like, Sesame. I have no interest in your games."

"Poo," the girl mumbled, slouching back into her chair irritably.

"I agree with the Doctor," the woman in the dress said. Her eyelids were very heavy, dusted purple in contrast to the rich tone of her dark skin. "The boy accomplished what we told him to. Speed can take care of themselves. And if not, we can always make another pair. Isn't that right, Doctor?

"Quite right, Claret. Although to be honest, I'd prefer not having to…"

"Enough," the Commander spoke again, and there was a hint of something like amusement in his voice. "Very well, Nike. Even if your mission did not go entirely as planned, you seem to have made some influential allies among the council. I suppose that is enough of a reason to keep you around. I'll call for someone to bring you to your room."

"No," Nike said quickly. "I have a favor to ask, first."

"If you're asking for my indulgent ear, you have it." The Commander seemed to be in a placating mood. That was good.

Nike kept his head bowed and his face impassive.

"There is a girl I wish to extract revenge from."

"Who?"

"You call her the Guard of Rot."

"Minerva?" The blonde man raised a hand to forestall the conversation. "You mean that silly little girl who follows Smith and Grey around?"

"That's the one, Jordan," the Doctor said, leaning back in his seat.

Claret tossed her hair. It looked black as oil even in the bright light, sucking in color around it. "I don't see a reason why we shouldn't humor him. Minerva has almost expended her usefulness, anyways. Just tell me: why her?"

"She was the one who tricked Artemis into returning to Haven," Nike said softly.

"She was serving AMN," Claret pointed out. "Besides, Artemis doesn't support our cause."

"Artemis and I may have different priorities, but we share certain interests. Mainly a body, even if he doesn't know it yet. I can't help but feel slightly protective over him."

"Don't joke, Nike," Claret sniffed. "We all know what you really want. Didn't get enough throats to slash while you were in Haven?"

Nike allowed a smile to pull up the corners of his mouth. "Maybe that's part of it."

"Very well," the Commander said. "I will grant your request. But don't kill her. I have plans for her."

"Oh?" Jordan raised an aristocratic brow. The Commander turned his head very slightly towards Jordan, and the blonde man fell silent instantly, pupils shooting so small in his eyes that they almost completely disappeared in the blue-green of his irises.

The last man to remain silent at the table, a teenager with short, dark hair cut in jagged bangs across his up-tilted eyes smiled at Nike with sharp teeth and leaned forward across the table.

"Commander says, right? Here, let me take you up to the infirmary. Things are getting stuffy in here anyways."

"Hey," Sesame pouted. "You can't leave me alone with all these old people. Claret, make him stay!"

Claret looked down at Sesame and shrugged delicately. "Let Blue do what he wants. And do act your age, Sesame. We all know how old you are."

Sesame bit her lip and crossed her arms with a huff. "Fine. Whatever. I'll get Grey to help me beat you up later."

"Grey? It wouldn't even be a challenge."

"Nuh-uh! The Doctor gave him some really good programs, didn't you, Doc? And if he's fighting, Smith will help. You can't beat all three of us."

"Come on," Blue stage-whispered. "Let's get out of here."

He grabbed one of Nike's hands and pulled him out of the room through a back door into an old fashioned elevator. He pressed two buttons, and the elevator shuddered for a moment before starting to move.

"God, you have no idea how glad I am you dropped by," Blue said, grinning. He relaxed until his lax posture appeared to fill up the entire space, even though he was only a few inches taller than Artemis. "I've been in there for hours. I'm not gonna lie, I don't even know what the Commander was trying to get us to discuss. Seriously, what's there to talk about? We've got a staff of normals to take care of all the maintenance shit. There are maybe a hundred guards in here. Until we get everyone else back, there's really nothing to do."

"Troops are being recalled, aren't they?"

"Are they?" Blue rubbed the back of his head. "I didn't know that. Why am I on the council, anyways?"

"The Commander selected you."

"Right. You know, dude, you're kind of a buzz kill. Is it true you're a monster?"

Nike looked up at him and blinked. "Yes," he said.

Blue snickered. "Yeah, right. Whatever you say, 'Rust.'"

Nike's eyes widened a fraction. "You know."

"Only from the moment I saw you, dude. Don't get me wrong, I don't think anyone else has caught on."

"If you noticed, the Commander must have-"

"Hey, hey, hey," Blue raised his hands defensively. "Don't be so quick to judge. The alternates are my specialty. The Doctor might make us, but I'm the one who keeps track of everyone, you know? It's a tough job. Grey had, like, fifty personalities before the Doctor was done with him, and half of them liked pretending they were the other ones. I got my shit together enough to sort all those out, I got my shit together enough to tell that Rust is still in there, somewhere, along with little Artemis." Blue flicked the side of Nike's head, and Nike swayed to the side with the impact, colliding with the elevator wall dizzily.

Blue rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to tell anyone." He kicked the floor. "I fucking hate it here. I don't expect you to get far, but I won't interfere."

Nike put out a hand to steady himself on the wall. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"Whatever, man. Why would I bother lying? Smith can extract any information from anyone, you know. It's not like I'd need to play good cop for her to get you to sing. So ah, good luck. And watch out for yourself, dude. Your room number is 356. The door's unlocked. They key should be in an envelope on your pillow."

"What about Minerva's room?"

"Minerva's room? No, man, you kiddies are sharing."

"I'm older than you, you know."

"Hm. You only think you're older than me. I'm like, way old. I don't even remember how old. Like, forty or something."

Nike glanced at him sideways, and found he was curious enough to ask. "Oh?"

"Why not, you know? You only live once, you might as well live young and beautiful." He winked. "So yeah, if you and Minerva get bored, just give me a ring. That girl needs to loosen up." He made a rude gesture with his hands.

Nike waited in silence for the elevator to stop. "Thank you for your silence," he said concisely, then stepped out into a creamy white hallway lined with doors.

"Sure thing, dude," Blue called. "The desk is right after the bend up there! Good luck!"

Nike found an unmodified normal working at the front desk. Her hair was in disarray and there was something strangely hollow about the tilt of her mouth. "Minerva's in recovery through door C," she told him.

The recovery unit was warm and clean. Many beds were set up around the room, each one with screens pulled closed around them. A few more normal attendants were stacking blankets in a heater and spooning soup into bowls.

"Excuse me," he asked one man. "Do you know where Minerva is?"

The man stared at him in confusion.

"Minerva," Nike said again, slower. "She's about this tall, long blonde hair, skinny, just like this around. Curls? Like this?"

The hand motions seemed to work. The man's eyes lit with comprehension and he shuffled over to a bed in the far corner.

Nike hesitated for a moment, staring at the slight drift and sway of the curtains around the bed. There was something foreboding about the last barrier between him and that girl. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then yanked back the curtain.

There she was, spread across the white hospital blankets with her head tilted back and her arms at odd angles. She was wearing linen pajamas instead of her usual heavy cloak, and Nike could see black bruises crawling up her arms, neck, ankles, and the slight sliver of pale stomach between her shirt and pants. Particularly nasty were the thick, dark lines around her neck and wrists and the swollen, off yellow wound distorting the skin under her left eye. There was blood around the rim of both her nostrils. Her skin looked yellowish, like sun-withered silk spread over grey algae. Even her hair looked damp, deflated, sticking out around her head like mossy sea grass.

He reached out a hand to trace the inside of her palm. Her fingers were curled like the legs of a dead spider. Her nails were overlong, gagged, and clotted with dirt and blood. Everything about her was foreign.

"Minerva," he said. "Minerva, wake up."

She didn't move. His hand drifted up her shoulder and he shook roughly. Her eyes fluttered open and she gasped like she was dying, focused instantly on his face with unseeing terror. The terror gave was for a moment in brief recognition, then she yanked herself into a sitting position at the top of the bed, feat drawn up against her chest, quivering.

"Rust," she whispered

He watched her for a moment, taking in the shaking of her shoulders and the labored quality of her breathing, then turned and began to walk away. "Follow me."

She scrambled to follow. He felt a stirring of quilt as she stumbled behind him along seemingly endless hallways, sick, unsteady, a girl he barely knew.

Artemis knew her, though. Artemis would have wanted her protected. And at ground zero of what Nike was beginning to suspect might be the final coffin of humanity, that was really all that mattered.

Door number 365 in the dorms was unlocked, just as Blue had promised. The rooms Nike had been assigned were humble, but not undesirable. He had a living room with a couch, television, and a set of computers. He had a kitchen, a large bathroom, a walk in closet, and a pantry stocked with canned foods and dried cereals. No movies, no CDs, no paintings or rugs. No windows.

Minerva stopped in the doorway of his bedroom. Nike glanced back, measuring her with his eyes. She was physically about two inches taller than him and not quite as skinny, but his body hummed with the hidden power of blood mods, and hers… didn't. If he had seen her outside, he never would have guessed she was a guard. More than just being worn and bruised and dirty, she looked tired. Or like she'd been born tired, like she was always going to be tired. Her posture wilted at every joint, a marionette on invisible strings. He was surprised her head didn't loll back and forth as she walked.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said.

She drew herself up slightly and brushed by him, then sat primly on the very edge of the bed. She met his eyes steadily.

Nike sighed. "Are you hungry?"

"You're not him," she said. "Don't try to lie to me. You're not Rust."

"No," he said. "I'm not."

"But… you're not Artemis either."

"No." It didn't worry him that she had figured it out. She knew them better than anyone else in the Guard, after all.

Her face collapsed into confusion. "Who are you? What do you want? I don't…"

She bit her lip and pulled her legs up again, hiding behind them like a child. Her eyes were red and dry, blisteringly hazel. They were fixed on his face, calculating, predatory, ready to catch a lie.

He hesitated for a moment, then sat down next to her. She recoiled and squeezed her eyes shut.

"Call me Nike," he said.

She shuddered. "I was so… I wanted Artemis to escape so badly… I hoped that he would figure out it was a trick, or one of his friends would, and he would stay in Haven. I prayed for it, goddamn you. I hate you for bringing him back." Her voice went hoarse as a whisper. "I hate you so much."

Nike watched her shudder with shear, unadulterated despair with cold dispassion. "You don't even know me."

Minerva gave a startled hiccupped then met his eyes uncertainly. "Can I talk to Artemis?" she asked.

Nike shook his head. "Try to sleep."

She bit her lip and looked down at the floor, hands lying uselessly on either side of her body, like nothing more than flesh over bones.

"I remember, when I was young, my father's doting used to frustrate me. I thought being surrounding by people like me- intelligent people, you know- would be heaven on earth. But this… I don't understand it at all. There's no art here. There is nothing human at all. I can't remember the last time I saw a working piano." She gave a harsh, cold laugh, and held up her fingers, as crooked and ruined as his own. "Even if I find one, I'm not sure I still possess the dexterity to suit the keys."

He tilted his head to one side. "You are upset. Did you think Artemis would save you?"

She shook her head. "No. Not really. I just… will you hold my hand?"

He considered for a moment, then reached over and wound their fingers together delicately. She sighed with relief and wiggled onto her stomach across the bottom of the bed, head pillowed on her free arm and hand still in his.

"You can all be one person again, you know, if you try hard enough," Minerva told him. She paused, then added, "I know you can do it." Nike said nothing, and Minerva sighed. "Whatever you're planning, then, be careful. Most of all of yourself."

He watched her eyes slide shut, then leaned back onto the bed with his feet hanging off the end. He glanced at his hand in hers, then at his shoes, and toad them off carefully. A clock was ticking somewhere in the kitchen. The sound gradually began to numb his senses to the world. It was going to be a long wait, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

"Sleep only so deeply, Minerva," he murmured. "In the morning we have work to do."

0o0o0o0

Get it? Get it? Oh my God, you must all want to kill me, but there you have Dissociative Personality Disorder. Er… surprise?

Okay, one question: does anyone know what holidays the fairies are supposed to celebrate?

Also, I'm so sorry this story is so much about white people, Jesus Christ. It's like a Star Wars convention. I mean, Claret's Indian, and Blue's Korean, but still borderline offensive, honestly. I'm offended. So many OCs! I'm keeping the focus on cannon characters, obviously, but… Well, there weren't really any severe villains in the series that I could reenlist. And I'm sorry Minerva's even in this story. She won't get too much more screen time. And I'm sorry if this chapter made no sense! Please just tell me if it didn't, and I will either repost a better version of this chapter, or clarify in the next one. And finally, I'm sorry about Nike. He's no fun to write. If everyone hates the idea of him, just tell me, and I might write him out of it. Because I cater to me reviewers. Because I need the attention- also because I love you!

You guys are amazing! Thank you so much for all these reviews.