A/N: Chapter contains potentially triggering content, including torture, hallucinations, gaslighting, blood, and drugs. This chapter is intense, but things are not all bad for our heroes. Please read with caution.

Chapter Six: Side Effects

The sensation of warmth on his cheek began to rouse Remus from what felt like an eternal sleep. His eyelids were heavy, and so for a while he simply laid where he was, groggy and confused. It could have been weeks that passed, Remus wasn't sure. Time was meaningless here. But the heaviness pressing on him grew stronger by the minute. And then, the screaming began.

Remus jerked awake, eyes ripping open. He was lying face down on a hard stone floor, watching dust scatter away from his face as he tried to calm panicked breaths. The tiles were covered in a sprinkling of hay, and from his position on the ground Remus could see an enormous bundle of it that he thought might be an attempt at a bed. In the earthen spaces between tiles, chutes of wolfsbane were struggling to grow. Remus' head seemed bloated and heavy as he tried to lift it off the floor, and he felt a pinching against his wrists before he heard the clink of chains: his hands were bound behind his back.

Remus forced an even breath out from between his teeth, trying to calm himself. It didn't help.

He rolled himself over, wincing when the chains pressed against his skin. Propping himself up on an elbow, Remus tried to get an awkward look around. He was in a small, dark room that lay along a hallway full of other, similar rooms, each containing a balverine thrashing violently against the bars and howling in rage against their containment. The racket was deafening, and it sent chills rocketing up and down his spine. The stench of urine and filth was overpowering, and Remus shut his eyes tight as a sudden sense of nausea overcame him but he could not stop the small bit of bile that erupted in the back of his throat. The warmth he felt on his cheek came from a tiny pillar of mid-day sunlight let in by a brick-sized window at the very top of the cell's rear wall.

BANG!

A sound rang through the halls as a door towards the end was slammed against the wall. Long shadows stretched down the dark corridor: the Lord of the city, his cane in one hand and his revolver in the other, and the large, hulking form of another man-a guard? Reaver strode along as if it were his right, his head held high above the filth of the Lessers' lair. The thick man trailed along behind, carrying his shoulders in what was undoubtedly a submissive stance; he a cowering puppy instead of a powerful balverine. He held his tricorn close to him, as if it would save him from Reaver's wrath.

"This is where you brought him?" Reaver demanded.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, Lord Reaver, just as you asked. I wasn' able to get much out of him, though."

"Hm," Reaver sneered. "I don't think that will be a problem anymore. Open the door."

There came the sound of a hundred rattling keys, and Remus craned his neck towards the bars in time to see them swing outward, groaning in protest as they admitted this newcomer into his cell. Large, thick fingers stuffed the key ring back into a worn trouser pocket as the guard closed the bars behind him with a terrible, metallic grinding. Remus seemed to come to his senses as the sound of their voices approaching his cell sent a wave of ice through his blood. He sensed instinctively that this appearance from Reaver was no accident, and that it would only lead somewhere terrible. How long had he been out? His eyes darted to the window, where the bold light of morning had begin to fade out into an afternoon glow. He needn't have looked: Remus could feel it already, an ache that threatened to stretch his very bones beginning to bleed into his awareness. Tonight was the night.

Somehow, he found his voice. "Where are the others?" he demanded without thinking, the words cracking from the dryness of his throat.

Reaver arched a fine brow and turned his head. "Awake? Good, makes things much easier. As for the others, what difference does it make to you where they are?" The immortal tilted his head sideways, feigning a pout. "Didn't you all just meet the other day? Awfully soon to start worrying about them. But if you simply must know, they're fine - for the time being. Your, ah- only a 'friend', was he? He hasn't woken up yet. And, well, the youngest of your little trio is still at the bottom of the bottle, so to speak."

Reaver flicked his wrist and the guard approached.

"Thought you was gonna sleep all day," the brute said, his voice gruff and hoarse as though he wasn't used to speaking. "Had plenty of time to search your belongings while you was out cold, too." The man placed the heel of one of his boots on Remus' side, not-so-gently turning him over onto his back. His face was lined with scars, many hidden behind a thick layer of stubble. Behind his snarl, Remus could see rows of yellowed, slightly pointed teeth. The man crouched down so that he was holding his knees. "Now, tell me: where's that stick of yours? Don't need anyone dyin', do we, mage? Tell me where your weapon is. Now."

Remus said nothing, involuntarily thinking back to the last thing he could remember. Reaver, gloating at the head of the table—he must have laced their drinks! But the balverines moved them here, the guard said so. So—where was his wand? If they had indeed searched him, wouldn't they have found it on him? The missing pressure against his belt loop was a sore loss, and Remus was helpless to explain it.

At his silence, the man frowned, momentarily regarding him with cold eyes. "You'll come around soon enough," he shrugged, wiping something from the corner of his mouth. He stood up, removing his tricorn hat and resting it in his hands. His hair was thick and dark, but clumped into thick strands by grease. "Newcomers try to fight, but they always come around in time. All the poor sods who come traipsing out o' those woods never knew what hit 'em," he added, turning and gesturing to the balverines in the cages. "But they always come around in time."

He laughed, a wet and throaty thing that sent a wave of hate surging through Remus' veins like molten steel. This man, this balverine - he was so like Fenrir Greyback, the man who made it a priority to turn children into werewolves like himself; the man who gathered the sufferers of his disease and turned them against their neighbors; the monster who turned innocent people into nothing more than beasts.

"Because to the rest of the world," Greyback had cried, "we're all monsters!"

But Remus Lupin was not a monster. He was a man, struggling to get by. He folded his socks, he had a record collection, he tried to be somebody. It didn't matter, though. None of that mattered, because all he would ever be to the world was a werewolf. Remus hated himself. He hated the thing he became. He hated that he wasn't even human and that once a month he was reminded of that fact in a way that was too painful for his mind to even comprehend.

All because of people like this.

"I'm not a balverine," Remus spat venomously. "I'm not like you!"

The man - Boots, Remus chose to call him - offered a sarcastic snort in reply. "Ah, but you're wrong. You migh' not be a balverine but you're closer to us than you are to your friends." Boots knelt low again, grabbing fistfuls of Remus' shirt and jerking him into a sitting position. His breath was hot in the werewolf's face as he spoke in a low, guttural growl. "You cling to this enlightened part of yourself, your - your humanity, but deep inside you're no different from us. We can all smell it, can't we, boys?"

The last bit had been a near shout, and the agitated yelps and roars of the nearby balverines escalated into a resounding explosion of indistinguishable noise at their leader's call. But with an angry grunt, Boots let go of Remus' shirt and headed to the bars, kicking them violently. "SHADDUP, ya bloody ankle biters!"

The howls immediately hushed, but did not completely die away. Boots grumbled to himself, rolling his eyes as he returned to his prey. Reaver rolled his eyes, bringing his hands down from his ears and glaring at Boots out of the side of his eyes. He cleared his throat, and Boots immediately stiffened.

"Tell me where your weapon is, mage." he warned, again leaning in close.

Remus glared at his tormentor, every fiber in him seething. Through gritted teeth, he said the only thing that came to mind:

"Fuck. You."

There was a sharp crack and the side of Remus' face exploded in pain. Stars flashed in his field of vision, and a warm trickle ran down his stinging cheek. Boots growled, examining his knuckles before wiping a large, golden ring against his trousers. But when his eyes had readjusted, Remus saw a smile working its way over the balverine's scarred face.

"Defiant. I'll give you that," he grinned. "But I stand by what I said: you can't fight it forever. It's only a matter of time." He chuckled to himself, satisfied with this knowledge, patting Remus on the head like a boy. "I can sense the animal within you. You're weak - soon, it's going to overtake you. Soon, it's going to force its way out."

Remus tried to swallow, but his throat was tight; he was barely breathing. He didn't even notice. Because if his throat was closed and his lips were pressed tightly together, he couldn't let out the screams collecting in his chest. He refused to let them out, refused to break the silence with an outburst that would represent all of his anger - all of his weakness - shoved together into one awful sound. But for all of the rage burning through his thoughts, Remus felt a wave of disgust settle in the pit of his stomach: Boots was right. Even if they managed to escape this place, he would still turn - and if he was here when it happened...

A sound escaped his throat, sounding suspiciously like growl, and Remus hung his head. The sunlight meant that the final day had come: the full moon was tonight. He would turn, whether he wanted to or not. And in this place, he had no control. Alastor had lied—there was no plan, was there? Remus felt his neck burning, shame building up inside him. Falling for such a ploy—Remus had never been more disgusted with himself. He wished now that he had told Anders and Naoya the whole truth when he revealed Alastor's plan, wished that he had told them to go and get away safely before the worst should happen. But this was never what he expected, once again putting his trust in the worst people imaginable.

He was a werewolf - he should never have joined Anders and Naoya in the first place! What would he have told them on the first full moon in this world, even if none of this had happened? What would he have done? Where would he have gone? His foolishness stung worse than the cut along his cheek, the guilt pierced him slowly, brutally. It sat in his gut, burning through his insides like he'd swallowed embers. Everything that happened now was his fault. More of his friends would die now, and it was his fault.

"What do you hope to achieve by locking us away down here?" Remus shot. "You already know we have nothing to offer you - we have no possessions, no information. We came here with nothing!"

Reaver used the end of his gun's barrel to turn Remus' chin up to look him in the eye. "That's just your point of view," he said, a smarmy expression overcoming his chiseled features. "I had to play the dutiful host to you three for too long." He removed his revolver from Remus' jaw, spinning the bejeweled piece in his hand with expert precision before holstering it. "Now it's time for you three to pay your dues to La Chateau de Reaver."

Slipping a key from his sleeve, Reaver tossed it in the air before catching it again. "I knew there was something similar to a balverine in you, but if you say that you're indeed different - well, we'll just have to find out how different... won't we? Now, just stay calm," Reaver directed, "I'm sure this probably won't hurt a bit." The immortal leaned closer to Remus, reaching behind and unlocking the shackles. They fell to the floor behind him with a thud, their fall softened by the wolfsbane circle surrounding him on the floor. Immediately, Remus brought his wrists up, rubbing them sorely. His elbows and shoulders were stiff from disuse and his skin had been rubbed raw from constant friction with the metal and he heard a satisfying popping sound as he flexed for the first time in almost a day. He stared up at Reaver, confused. What was that supposed to prove?

"I don't understand," he croaked, "Why - would you let me go?"

Reaver didn't reply at first, instead taking a step back, and with a wide sweeping gesture the Lord motioned towards the doorway. He then frowned, moving his fingers in a little waving movement and Boots quickly stepped aside. "There's the door, Mr. Lupin," he said accommodatingly. "Now, get off with you. Tsst, scoot, off you go. Vamoose, allons-y, geh weg!"

This was all too convenient. Remus knew that this was a set-up. But what was there to be gained by resisting? Another day in this cell, another week? If he could jut get out of this cellblock, there was more chance of him escaping - or reuniting with the others - than there was if he remained here. That did not stop him from hesitating - before slowly rising to his feet, eyes flickering to the door and to Boots, waiting in the hallway beyond, and then back to Reaver, who remained where he was, observing him with a snide smirk.

But when he tried to take a step, blinding pain surged behind his eyes and Remus stopped, horrified. He couldn't do it - he couldn't leave. It wasn't the pain - even if it surged with renewed vigor the more he struggled. It was the sudden feeling, a foreign thought emerging from somewhere in his mind. Again, he tried to move, but he found that his body simply disobeyed him. He shut his eyes, clenching the bridge of his nose. A sharp breath flared from his nostrils as he tried to will himself to move - to just take that one step, that one pathetic, step-! But he couldn't. All he could do was stand there. And he knew with a terrible, sinking feeling that it was because Reaver didn't want him to leave.

So this was Reaver's test.

Reaver stood there, hands stacked on the glittering crystal orb that sat atop his cane. Watching as Remus froze, he let out an amused chuckle.

"Can't do it, can you?" he commented and tapped a gloved finger against his lips, his smile fading as he thought on this confirmation of his theory. "So, quite like the balverines, you're swayed into obedience by this." He tapped his cane on the stone floor. "You say you're not a balverine, and we both know that's true. But you're a beast like them, and not much of a man, then, I'll take it. And what a shame, you seemed to be the only one with some semblance of manners. Though if beasts like you do happen to come with manners, I'd take an army of your kind for comfort in this dreary eternal place over the mindless structure of those creatures for a few centuries." The immortal lifted his cane, then holding it under the orb like it were a scepter. "Still, then, I'm quite curious. What do you look like in your non-human form?"

The briefest of moments passed in silence. When nothing happened, Reaver looked taken aback, looking to the cane and shaking it with an annoyed scowl. Remus' hands shook and his fingernails bit into the flesh of his palms as he tried to hold back his anger, but at the Lord's frustration, a faint, humorless grin worked its way onto his face - something Reaver didn't fail to notice. Remus let out a pained hiss and nearly dropped to his knees again, hands clutching at his temples and fingers wrapping themselves in his hair as he felt Reaver's eyes fix on him and the staff command his obedience.

"It doesn't work that way," he heard himself say, his eyes watering and light flashing in his vision as the pain continued to grow in intensity. Remus started to panic: the words were slipping out like they had been greased—before he could even begin to object, Reaver's influence won out. How far did the connection go now that it was almost moonrise?

The pain suddenly ceased, and Remus realized he had been holding his breath. He gasped, choking on musty air and spiced perfume through heavily gritted teeth. His mind was going a thousand miles an hour without thought, his chest was tight and his hands couldn't stop shaking.

"How does it work?"

Reaver's voice was curious, but not overtly so. Remus shot him a defiant look. "You already know how—stop playing games!"

Reaver frowned, his grip going white against the cane. Remus bit his tongue to stop from crying out.

"Tell me," Reaver said. "I want you to tell me."

Only after another minute of this, did Remus finally speak: "Moon—", he grimaced, "it's the moon!"

"The moon?" Reaver repeated, almost as if the nature of the answer were an insult. "Yes, I think that's much better. Don't you see how much easier this is if you just cooperate, Mr. Lupin? And here I was hoping you'd give a more interesting answer." He lightly sneered, his defined lips pulling back to reveal his teeth in his disappointed look. "So, what is it then. The new moon, the full moon? The halo moon or a moonbow, perhaps? I only know so much, you see—such are the limits of my position, as small as they are."

"The full moon," he spat through a heavy scowl. "Once a month. I can't control it - it just happens."

He could see Boots just beyond Reaver's reach, smiling at him with a mocking grin as he shook his head. He needn't say a word - his message was clear: "You poor bastard."

"Reaver, stop this!" Remus shouted suddenly, his face long-since turned a shade of red. Defiance roared up like a dragon in his belly, but he pushed it down: he needed to end this before it turned from bad to worse. "Stop toying with me. I don't know how you know so much about us, but you know enough to be in control. So why are you doing this? Why did you really come down here?"

The slapping sound of stone hitting flesh echoed through the cell. Reaver held the end of his cane, staring down at Remus with blue eyes laced with venom. He watched the guard immediately force Remus onto the ground and shackle him once again, tucking back a stray lock of hair that had come loose with his swing.

"You seem to mistake your position here, Mr. Lupin," the words were musical but icy. The immortal then pulled his cane away, looking at the small splatter of blood left on the crystal orb. "Tsk, you've gone and gotten your blood all over my Control Crystal. This orb's almost ten-thousand years old, you should show it more respect."

Withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket, Reaver began to polish the head of his cane. "You know, the balverines do something similar. They use the full moon to make some of the more 'pure-blooded' of their kind." He paused, then rolled his hand in a gesturing motion at Remus. "I do apologize. Of your kind." The immortal smirked, light devious crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, then returned to wiping. "Well then, if the moon does as you say... I suppose it's only a matter of time, isn't it? And for your resistance, I have something that might help make the hours go by that much faster..."

At Reaver's words, the guard waved someone in, and off to his left Remus heard something shuffle out of the darkness of the hallway. A musky, sweet stench permeated the cell as the doors opened, admitting a shifted balverine into the room. Its fangs were coated in white frothy saliva that dripped onto a narrow chin as it barred it's sabre-like teeth, and the quills along its stretched, twisted form glittered black as coal. Remus' eyes widened as the creature stepped forward and extended its claws, an animalistic hiss escaping from deep within its belly. He struggled, but with no wand and his hands tied, al he could do was wriggle helplessly against the guard's vice-like grip.

"Kill him," Reaver warned as the balverine approached, "and your pelt will be filled with bullet holes."

The balverine with the musty, mottled fur turned its head to look up at him.

Reaver headed out the door. "Mr. Lupin, I suppose if you really want to know why you're down here, it's because I need someone that the this cane can't take hold of and that the balverines haven't eaten yet. Can't tell you how many I've lost to hungry imbeciles." Reaver leered at Boots for a second. "That leaves temperamental Anders, and young Itsuki. And, well, with you no longer a viable option and that teenager upstairs, I suppose my only option left is dear, angry Anders. Of course, if the moon does do as you say, you aren't much use to me beyond being a pretty new pet. We'll just have to see how pretty your other form is, else you might just become a new rug." The dark-haired man in the white suit started to walk away, not even turning to look back. "The full moon's coming, Mr. Lupin~ Until then, tatty-bye."

Reaver's laughter followed him down the hall, and the guard stepped back, releasing his hold on Remus, who immediately tried jerking away from the wolfish creature. But it was fast - too fast. It was over before he'd had a chance to blink: a pair of thin, red lines erupted from the minuscule scratches along his throat. Remus blinked stupidly as the balverine retreated, wondering why the creature hadn't pounced, hadn't tortured him. But he only had to wonder for a moment. Remus felt the sensation of having the floor drop from below him, and his vision swirled. The whole world seemed to shift, and he was suddenly on the floor again. The citrus smell of the crushed wolfsbane mingled with the pungent stench of dog, and the cell was nothing more than a mass of color and texture, blended together like an abhorrent cocktail.

Then he saw it: blood. Blood, splattering the walls and pooling along the floor. It was on his hands, painting his skin in warm, sticky splotches. Day had become night, silvery moonlight pouring in like a spotlight, illuminating -

Oh, Merlin, no —

The cell was too dark to see past the column of light, but the body partially illuminated at the base was unmistakably Anders. He was laying in a pool of his own blood, his hair collecting into thick, red clumps. He'd been torn apart. Remus' stomach hitched, emptying what little it contained.

He forced himself up, mind reeling. His breath was rapid, panicked. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real!

He craned his neck, glancing wildly up at the distorted faces of the balverines towering over him. Reaver was grinning, half-laughing, and the canine balverine barked with amusement as a thick boot met Remus' chest and pressed down on him. When the guard reached his hands towards Remus' face again, he could see them covered with blood.

"NO!"

Remus kicked, socking the man's great belly and reveling in the man's pained scream. Remus tried shuffling away, stretching his shoulders painfully for that extra inch of distance. He rolled onto his stomach, spotting the bars of the cell wide open still. He heard the poison balverine hissing behind him, and he jerked forward—

Naoya's face was sliced down the length of it. He lay crumpled against the bars, his one remaining eye staring fixedly up at him, calling him out—

Now Remus could smell it: the pungeant odor of thickly spattered blood. Thick fingers grabbed him from behind, dragging him across the floor and whipping him into the hay pile. But now his face had been warped even further, and it bore an almost melted look. The other balverine was nothing but glowing eyes and fangs, a horrific mockery of the Cheshire cat in the darkness of the cell.

"Again," he heard Reaver's warped voice say to the poisonous breed, and Remus again felt the scraping of laced claws against his neck. Reality began to fade again, and Remus could only try to quell his racing breaths as the balverines finally left his cell. Soon he was no longer alone: Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, Lily and James—tormented faces joined Anders and Naoya with him, and they all wanted blood—his blood.

His fault! His fault! His fault!

Finally, slowly, Remus curled into himself. The roar of the balverines was joined by a single, howling scream.

Somewhere far away from Remus, Anders woke up, which was the first challenge of many he was about to face. It was dark, and he couldn't see the bridge of his nose in the—wherever he was. He knew he was awake, though, because he knew the feel of the Fade like only a mage could. But in all other respects, this was more like a nightmare than anything from the waking realm.

Anders let out a slow, patient breath. His heart had already begun to beat out of control, and he forced himself to listen for any sound that might betray what was happening. He flexed his limbs, feeling for the first time that he was bound in a chair, his arms and legs strapped tightly to the frame. He couldn't direct his magic without his hands, and Anders whipped his neck urgently, relieved to feel his small half-pony slap against his ears. At least he could still move his head, he thought, his lips automatically pulling to the side with an anxious expression that nobody would see. He let out another breath, testing his bonds—but they were solid, not allowing for any slack that might give him enough room to wiggle a hand free. The last images he could recall replayed forcefully inside his mind.

Reaver. He must have known—somehow, he had to have known about their plan to escape. That Blighted bastard! That bloody coward, the rotten, piss-drinking, shit-eating son of a—

"Who's there?"

Anders tilted his ear towards the sound, but there was nothing. Now he cursed himself. He was still alone in the dark.

No, Justice said. Not alone.

Relief made Anders' limbs nearly tingle. He could almost laugh, and he chastised himself for forgetting his friend. Anders let the knowledge wash over him and he felt his panic begin to subside, though only slightly. Having another present, even inside his own body, was preferable to Anders. He knew all too well the horrors of being alone in the dark. A year spent in solitary had taught him more than he ever wanted to know.

Anders could feel himself returning to that miserable cell, forgotten in the deep cellars of Kinloch Hold. Unaccustomed to total darkness, phantom lights danced in front of his eyes and Anders couldn't help but remember the demons that whispered each night for him to give in. His hands shook now as they had then, even with the restraints, and Anders dug his fingernails into his sweat-soaked palms to remind himself that he was still in the present. His breaths shuddered as he remembered the stink of the cell, from the chamber pot the Templars only emptied once per fortnight if he was lucky. The sound of his own voice echoing his panic was a sweet poison: songs whispered to himself to pass the many hours became whole conversations, became stories, became screams—screams at the top of his lungs, anything to keep the silence away—!

ANDERS.

Justice broke through the horrific cyclone of images, his mere presence a shining beacon brighter than the spirit's natural glow. Anders breathed again, one, two, three, one, two, three... He blinked the shards of fear from his eyes and licked his lips, shifting his toes inside his boots as his whole body gave a great shudder.

He could not express his gratitude to Justice in words, but he he suspected Justice already knew. Words were often extraneous for them.

Tiny blue crackles of light crossed the top of Anders nose, confirming that they had both just head the same thing: the growing rhythm of hard soles on stone. Someone was coming. Anders turned his ears towards the noise, listening intently as the evenly paced steps came closer to his chamber. They stopped just before what Anders assumed was a door, and he heard the rattling of a key ring followed by the harsh clank of a lock.

The light in the hall was not much better, and at first Anders could only see the briefest silhouette of the man entering the room. But his stomach clenched and Anders stiffened, because it was unmistakable.

"I really ought to do something about the horrendous lighting down here," Reaver muttered briefly, heading over towards the far wall and setting a match to the mounted torch. Immediately, the room was flooded with a sickly orange glow and Anders blinked as his eyes adjusted painfully to the light.

"Good morning!" Reaver purred, and Anders' insides burned at the smug grin Reaver wore like an accessory. "Or, rather, afternoon. You're a heavy sleeper, Nurse Anders. Out like a light for twenty-two hours." The glint in his eye told all that was needed to know about how Anders wound up in the dungeon: Reaver had messed with their drinks.

At the thought of Remus and Naoya, Anders sat up as straight as he could. "Where are they?" Anders spat, following Reaver with his head as best he could. He was watching his hands, for any sign of a weapon: he was not strapped down to a chair without purpose.

In response, Reaver inspected the head of his cane, scrunching his nose at the few stubborn droplets of red that hid in the crevices. He pointed the jeweled tip in Anders' face, making sure he got a good, long look. "You should really have a conversation with your friend. Tell him that it's very rude to get blood all over something that doesn't belong to him."

"Bastard!" Anders roared, his voice resounding painfully against the walls as he strained against his bindings. It only made Reaver's smile widen, and the coals of Anders' rage burned hotter. "What did you do?! I swear by the Maker, I will do worse to you—you'll spill more blood than you drew!"

"Oh, calm down, calm down," the Lord chided, mock pity lifting his brows. "You're awfully easy to work into a tissy-fit. I didn't draw a lot of blood. More like I smacked him around and left a big bruise." With a spring in his step, he swung out his cane at the air in demonstration. "Which was rather kind of me, given the circumstances Mr. Lupin left me in. Someone should be thanking me for sparing such a boring creature.

"By the Maker-"

"And it does you no good to swear unto your god, or gods, or what-have-yous." Reaver shook his head as he spoke, a smile sneaking up on his chiseled face. "I don't believe in your deities, therefore nothing's going to happen to me. Trust me, countless others have asked their gods for help against me; but I can tell you that in all my years that I've maybe only ever seen anything close to a deity once. Maybe twice, if you count this blind old hag I once knew... She was a frighteningly powerful woman..." He walked over and stroked back some of Anders' blond locks, then gave him a patronizing pat. "Ah, but I digress. Point is, no one's dead. Not yet." Lidded eyes watched the irate mage squirm, Anders' skin flaring blue and quickly fading like a burning effigy of personified anger.

"You son of a bitch," Anders growled. Reaver withdrew his hand just in time for Anders' saliva to miss it's mark.

With blinding speed, Reaver had Anders' jaw clasped tightly in his hand, slamming the back of his head into the chair. "You still continue to disappoint me," he said, tilting Anders' head to either side. "I thought with a spirit like yours you would be more entertaining. I have lived far too long to be rattled by a child like you, and you are alive only by my good graces. If you want to stay that way, then I suggest you start playing the part of the good little mage and answer my questions."

He let go of Anders' face, watching the white pressure marks he left on his cheeks fade back into an angry red. He wriggled his fingers in the air as he spoke: "Is that amicable to you, Nurse Anders?"

Anders glared at him behind gritted teeth, wishing to spear Reaver with just his eyes. "You're mad. You're howling at the bloody moon!"

Reaver restrained a terse laugh. "Oh, I'm not the one who's howling," he said, his pursed lips trying to keep himself from a full-blown grin.

Anders pressed his lips firmly together, directing all his fury through his hardened stare at the man who thought a torture chamber was the gateway to a civil conversation. Reaver only shrugged.

"I expected as much, coming from you. You do seem to fancy being the protector of your little group, don't you?" Reaver wiped the cloth along the head of his cane again, still staining the white cloth with blood. "But for all your efforts, you are rather abysmal at it. If you knew half as much about your friends as I do, you would be infinitely more successful. Young Itsuki wouldn't be hitting the bottom of the bottle, and Mr. Lupin wouldn't be on such a short leash. Things have just gone just, as the rabble would say, 'doggone crazy' for you." A laugh finally escaped him, his white perfect teeth flashing as he grinned.

Something inside Anders gave an involuntary twitch. Protector? Hardly. He was not the leader of their group, nor the most cautious. But Reaver's words hooked him, drawing him in with a painful truth: he did care about the others. He had been so busy hating Reaver that he could have missed anything—any opportunity to get them out. The others had been trying so hard... Anders felt a loyalty and a strange sense of kinship with the others now, after having survived this long together. He hadn't thought about it, but he realized that he had actually come to consider them as friends. It was easy to want to protect the people he cared about. It was as ingrained a part of Anders as Justice was. But something else nagged at the back of Anders' mind, whispering like a worm in his ear: what did Reaver know about them that Anders didn't? The thought made Anders' chest ache. He sucked in a heated breath, his chest straining at the restraints of the chair.

"You're playing mind games. Of course I want to protect them—not like you would know what that's like!"

But Reaver's complexion paled, and his eyes grew distant—haunted. "Well that's where you're wrong," he said with a teetering smile, trying to sound charming but his allure was fading. "There's me. Who better to protect than myself? After all, that's who you have to live with at the end of the day." He turned away from Anders, pressing his hands into his hips. "Such a shame you're so interested in being a martyr. You would've made a handsome escort."

His words were light, but Anders saw the cracked facade for what it was. "It looks like we're both failures, then," he prodded, adding as much venom as he could muster.

"No one has said anything about you failing just yet, Anders," Reaver spoke again after a few minutes. His practiced ways and mannerisms were coming back, and he spoke as if he had no outburst at all. "Maybe there's a way for you to still-" he rolled his eyes, his back still turned and his tone even "-succeed..."

"Have you ever done this before?" Anders asked. "You have complete control. You won. And now you're going on about how I can succeed? We fell right into your trap. You've locked us away for your amusement, or something much less interesting, because if we were going to be left to rot, you wouldn't have shown up, would you? So forgive me if I don't believe you when you tell me there's something beyond failure here. Because at the present moment there is strikingly little that I can do to free those I care about. I doubt that you and I can meet any sort of compromise."

Reaver tilted his head, placing his cane against the wall to bring his fingers up to his lips. He tapped them rhythmically, his brow curling upwards. "Oh, but what if that's not true? Come on now, don't play the stubborn mage. Hear me out. Well, not that you have a choice in the matter at the moment," he placed a hand on his hip, shaking his head, small dark curls bouncing from the motion. "I've got a little problem to take care of. Young Itsuki is a little too veteratorian for it, and Mister Lupin, well-" Reaver had a glint of amusement spring to his voice "- he has a... 'pre-existing condition' that makes it difficult for him to complete this task. And by process of elimination, that leaves you. Agree to help me, and they can go. You can do whatever you like afterwards. You might even find yourself back home, or someplace as equally similar."

"You want me to help you escape." Anders eyed Reaver carefully, feeling the shift of power and trying not to delight in it. "This place isn't just your home: it's your prison. I know more than you think I do, Lord Reaver. And I don't think I'll be helping you."

Reaver looked as though he had been slapped. He visibly struggled with himself, a bubble of rage bursting through his elaborate persona.

"Very well. I wanted to do this the nice way," he said. "You are nothing if not stubborn, mage. Let me remind you that I am, as you said, in complete control."

Reaver unholstered his pistol, tapping it against his chin in mock contemplation. An idea seemed to strike him, and he leaned in very close, leaning Anders scrunching his nose at the sudden smell of spices. He felt the barrel of the gun press against his kneecap.

"Do this for me, or watch both of your friends die."

"NO!"

Reaver backed away, squinting behind a gloved hand as Anders' skin erupted into a blaze of electric blue light. Justice struggled against the bonds of the chair, drawing every ounce of strength between both he and his host to break free.

"YOU WILL NOT HARM THEM," Justice boomed, and Reaver shrunk back as the wooden chair gave an unholy groan followed by a sharp crack.

Both Anders and Justice screamed as a knife cut into the meat of his thigh, as much in surprise and fear as pain. Justice struggled against the breaking bonds, but Reaver forced Anders' head back against the chair with his fingers, the other palm still wrapped around the handle of the blade.

His expression darkened considerably. "I've tried doing this the nice way," he said. "But niceties are lost in terms of dealing with you, mage.

He twisted the knife just a little, and Anders cried out again.

Reaver went on: "I know for a fact that you can be broken. It will just take time, and I have more than enough of that!"

At Reaver's command, the door into the hallway opened and an auburn balverine entered the chamber with something hanging from a cloth in her muzzle. Reaver snatched it up without looking at her, throwing the cloth into the darkness beyond the flame as he unscrewed the cap over the jar inside. "Balverines are good for more than just the thrill of the hunt. Especially the poison breed."

Thrusting upwards, Reaver ripped the dagger from Anders' thigh and smeared something cold across the open wound that left Anders' flesh tingling and screaming. From the location of the wound, Anders could feel something moving through his veins, sapping his energy and depleting his mana. But only when the lines of blue across his skin began to fade did Anders begin to truly panic.

He could no longer feel Justice.

No, no-!

Anders' vision began to swirl, and even against the support of the chair his limbs had grown to the weight of lead slabs. "How did you-" he sputtered, finding his tongue equally uncoordinated.

Red hair, green eyes, and the glint of a staff in the firelight; Reaver seemingly faded in the background, as her form solidified. She stood just at the edge of his vision in the darkness, and Anders couldn't even begin to wonder how she got there.

"Hawke?" he said, or tried to say. His lips grew slack and his head lolled. He was hardly able to look at her. But he saw her face, her emotionless expression, and the brand across her forehead.
Someone grabbed Anders from behind, jerking his head against the chair just as Reaver had. He felt heat against his neck as Hawke stepped out of the darkness, moving past Reaver and his sadistic grin to position herself at Anders' feet. She brushed back a few stray bands of hair from his forehead, and Anders struggled to breathe.

"I came looking for you," Hawke said. Her voice was monotone, but every one of them struck Anders like a blade. "We needed you. I tried stealing maps from the Chantry archive once I learned that you abandoned us, abandoned me. I was caught, and made an example of. Anders," she whispered, "this is your fault."

"No," Anders said, cursing his lax tongue. "I didn't abandon you—I swear it, Lillian, I—"

"Enough," said another, much harsher voice. The heat against Anders' neck was almost searing, and a hot, white brand came into view as it passed his ears. A metallic gauntlet grabbed him by the hair, joining the other around his throat. Hawke looked on, expressionless, even as Anders pleaded.

"Knight-Commander Meredith thought that we could be made examples of," Hawke said, "you shall see, Anders. This is truly the best way we can serve Kirkwall."

"NO!" Anders struggled against his bonds, mind swirling with rampant thoughts: magebane didn't cause this. It wasn't hallucinogenic. This was happening—this was happening, but that was impossible! The Templar with the brand came closer to him and Anders struggled helplessly as the molten lyrium was pressed closer and closer to his flesh. His eyes went from the Templar, to Hawke, to Reaver. Anders watched his smile with a burning hatred: Reaver almost looked curious to see this unfold.

Catching his eye, Reaver laughed to himself. "I told you, dear mage," he said, excusing himself out, "everyone can be broken."

Visions of his immediate surroundings flickered into his mind's eye, there was nothing off or threatening about what he was able to sense… Except for the smell of the bed. It smelled clean and fresh, sure, but it was laced with the light smell of dogs and cloying perfume. Eyes cracking open, the teen immediately regretting doing so. He shut his eyes as quickly as he'd opened them, groaning and burying his face into the soft pillows as he rolled onto his stomach. Naoya stayed like that for a while, he rolled onto his side only when his neck started to hurt. Again he tried to open his eyes - and was met with the sights of some strange, rich-looking bedroom. His brow furrowed, scrunching his features as he pushed himself up to get a better look around.

This wasn't his bedroom, and it was too old fashioned-looking to be a spare EGO bunk. Finally, his mind cycled over all the possible places he could have been, before realizing that he was back in his room at Reaver's manor. Naoya looked down at the bed, and as comfortable and plush as the sheets were, what caught his attention wasn't the nice bed or finely-stitched down comforter. "Where're my clothes…?" he tiredly slurred, tugging at the silken gray pajamas he found himself once again dressed in. He didn't remember dressing himself. His head pounded, his mouth tasted like vomit - and he couldn't do anything more than just squint at everything, as fully opening his eyes was like a full-frontal assault on his senses.

A pitcher and two, clean glasses on one of the side tables caught his attention, and he waved his hand to float it over to him. The glass rattled, but didn't budge. He hadn't been drinking last night… had he? Confused, he fluttered his eyes a few times trying to make sense of it. Maybe he was just tired. Again he tried to pull the glass over to him with his mind, but focused harder - causing the glass to shatter. Naoya groaned and threw himself back into the pillows. "I gotta do everything the old-fashioned way," he half-slurringly groaned.

Once more he sat up, this time pulling himself over to the edge of the bed and pouring himself a glass of what he hoped was just water. Naoya downed it, finding himself more eager for water than he wanted to admit, and poured another. Feeling a little better, and avoiding the broken glass, he got out of the bed - but kept the half-filled glass in his hand. On a vanity bureau the psychic spotted a neatly-folded pile of what he recognized were his clothes complete with his cleaned sneakers resting on top. A note had been placed on top of his shoes, written in black ink and on linen paper.

Naoya blinked at the paper he held. In his aching state he thought that staring at the paper hard enough would lead to the words making sense. But they didn't. "I really wish I knew how to read English," he let out a large yawn, scratching at his hip idly. The only word he recognized was "please"; and he knew enough to know that the note was written in cursive. Maybe he shouldn't have slept through most of his classes or spent schooldays chatting up girls and staring at the boys' basketball team. Curiously, he gave his jacket a quick sniff and found that it smelled clean and freshly-laundered… and a lot like the bed. Everything that had been in his pockets was inside one of his sneakers: wallet, cell phone, cigarettes… and a long, wooden stick. He turned it over in his hands. It was smooth, and almost weighted. It was Remus's wand, he remembered.

"Hocus pocus," he tiredly laughed, placing it beside his clothes. Why on earth did he have Remus's wand?

The young psychic caught a look at himself in the vanity's mirror. His light hazel hair was a mess and it was clear that he had a case of bed head; Naoya also thought his eyes looked a little dull, probably from the hangover. Which was odd… he still didn't remember drinking. He shrugged, reasoning that booze would explain not remembering booze.

He set his glass of water down and attempted to smooth out his hair, playing with it this way and that. Jokingly, he gave himself small pigtails and made a sassy face. He then pulled his bangs and some of his hair back into a half-pony, letting the rest of his ear-length hair hang loose. He chuckled at his own reflection. "I look like a better-lookin' Andy," Naoya quipped, letting his hair fall back into place. He decided that was how he was going to greet the mage. Then came the thought that he had no idea where either of his companions had gone. Last thing he remembered was the three of them, eating dinner with -

"Reaver."

Realization donned. This was not his world. He had been ripped from his own world, and this was that crossroads place. They arrived at Reaver's mansion. Eating dinner with Reaver. Remus and Anders had wanted to leave. He was supposed to go with them. They had been trying to escape from this place.

Throwing his clothes on, Naoya jiggled the ornate door handle - finding it locked. "What the…?" He jostled the lock a few more times with no luck, thinking of way to pick the lock only made his headache return. He took a few steps away from the door, raising his hands out in front of him and trying to focus his psi. The air rippled with energy, but when he went to fire hardly any came out. It fizzled and failed. Again he tried, again his powers fell short.

When he couldn't stand the pain in his skull anymore, he crumbled to his knees and vomited on the floor.

Naoya wiped his mouth on his sleeve and attempted to swallow the lump in his throat. A horrible feeling clawed at his senses, he could feel something was wrong; something had happened to the two older men.

He shakily got to his feet and started pounding on the door with balled fists. "HEY! The door's locked!" But there was no answer, not even the sounds of footsteps. He threw all his weight, not that it was much, against the heavy mahogany door. "Hello?" All he managed to do was bruise his boney shoulder.

Frustrated, he stomped his foot and released a wave of psi. Furniture rattled and glass creaked from the expelled energy, and the fluttering of gold-tassled curtains gave the psychic an idea. Naoya eyed a small wire chair at a nearby desk, something that he could easily lift in his hands, before dragging it over to one of the multi-paned windows and readying it as if he were going to swing a bat at a ball.

"You're still disoriented?" an incredulous voice demanded. A gloved hand gripped the wire chair and lifted it up, taking the thin teen with it before he let go. Alastor held the chair out of Naoya's grasp.

Naoya quickly looked to the door, which was now wide open. He hadn't heard the door unlock, much less the silent giant of a man come in behind him. "No," Naoya answered. When he went to bolt for the open door, Alastor caught the back of his collar. After struggling for a second he folded his arms over his chest and pouted.

"Are you sure, or are you normally this stupid?" Alastor set the chair down, but didn't release his grip on the boy's clothing.

"Depends on who you ask." Naoya frowned. Remus has mentioned that Alastor was going to help them escape. "What kind of escape involves drugging me?"

"It wasn't part of the plan," Alastor shortly explained. "Reaver… Unlike your companions, you had a bad reaction to whatever Reaver slipped you. You broke out in a horrible sweat and vomited all over yourself." Alastor shook his head, shoving the psychic towards the bed while he moved to shut the door. "This is the second time I have had to clean you of your own vomit."

"Could have just left me there," the EGO grumbled. "Or fed me to your friends."

"You'd have to have meat on your bones for that to happen. We balverines do not have much use for toothpicks."

Naoya made an offended expression, patting his ribs and waist. "What happened to all that hospitality?"

The frost balverine took a deep breath, once more shaking his head. "If you really wish to find out how 'hospitable' things are around here, may I suggest going down to the dungeons where your friends are."

Naoya eyed him. "What are you saying?"

"I've got a proposition for you, and I think it's rather wise that you listen to me."