Author's Notes: This is all Silverbee's fault. I have a final in less than
ten hours and I really planned on studying before bed. However, Silverbee
left me lovely feedback and then suckerpunched me with a request for
the resurrection of Alex. I couldn't bloody well resist that, now could
I? Dammit. I'm gonna be up all night now studying. You see what
feedback does to me? I'm like a junkie. *sigh* Anyways, this is
the sequel to "Russian Roulette." It could stand on its own,
but I wrote it with the intention of creating a new mini-series.
Mostly an AU fic, but general warning for "Cry Your Name," "Meet the Dupes,"
and "Baby, It's You."
Three Card Monte
She wasn't sure how long she had been in here. They kept in dark,
and the days slid into night so easily. Rath joked once about modifying
the room into a dungeon, but Lonnie had shot him a look and he subsided,
although she still saw the gleeful glint in his eyes.
They didn't come by much anymore. Before, they liked to stop in
regularly to taunt her with updates, about how easily the others had
accepted the Imposter in her place. It used to hurt, but now she could
barely remember their faces. As she weakened, Nicholas was able to get through
her defenses easier and easier. Soon, he would be able to pentrate the tight
walls she kept around the location of the Granolith. If they taken her
a month before they traveled to New York, she might not have fought so hard,
but she remembered sitting with a devasted Max on a park bench, offering the
scant comfort she could. It was one of the few memories she knew was real.
The food they rationed out to her was bland and mushy. No need to waste
seasonings on a prisoner. She thought she tried to escape once, had tried
to mindwarp the guard into believing she was still in her cell. It had worked,
she thought, and she slipped out past him, but she had gotten lost in the maze
of corriders and eventually the warp became too much for her to contain. She
fainted. When she woke up, she was shackled to a wall, with Nicholas sitting on
the cot. It had almost been amusing watching a ten year old boy berate her. All
the humor had disappeared when he gave her to Lonnie and Rath as a plaything.
After that, she realized why her double had taken the chance to flee them in
Roswell.
A flash of movement caught the corner of her eye and she turned her head,
watching as her cellmate roused to consciousness. Nicholas, and through him Kivar,
was growing frustrated with the boy. Though he was only human, someone had
constructed a strong mental shield in his mind. Nicholas couldn't pentrate it.
Each time he tried and failed, the boy suffered.
She could remember when he had been thrown in here, like a sack of garbage.
He'd been bleeding from a head wound, the blood streaming down to obscure most of
his facial features. She hadn't recognized him until those blue eyes opened and a
hoarse voice whispered her name. The shock of it sent her scuttling back to a shadowed
corner. She hadn't heard her name in such a long time. Here they referred to her
as "Max's bitch," "The Roswell Slut," or a mocking "Your Majesty." Groggily, he
had pushed up to his hands and knees, raising his head to look at her through the
crimison stains.
It seemed like some cruel trick at first, and she had retreated again. Something
broke in his eyes and he let himself slump back to the ground. Some unknown
part of her that survived Lonnie's disciplines had her stepping forward. She became
convinced when his breathing slowed nearly to a stop and with his last bit of energy,
he whispered Isabel's name. Leaping forward, she used the little bit of power she always
kept in reserve to mend the worse of the damage. She always rationed her water throughout
the day, keeping some for the next day in case they decided not to feed her. She used
it now, trickling it through his cracked lips. He started to cough, and she leaned forward,
kissing him, so not to waste any of the precious liquid.
His recovery was slow and it didn't help that Nicholas began the mind invasions
almost immediately. The Skin brought pictures with him, images of grief and sorrow.
She leapt on them as soon as the door swung shut behind Nicholas. There was one of
Isabel, her icy mask cracked, the strains of grief clear on her face. Maria was leaning
heavily against Michael, as if she depended on him to keep her standing. Max was leaning
against a locker, his hands shoved in his pockets, his head bowed. There was also one of
the Imposter, standing there looking up at the Sheriff, its fingers linked with Kyle's.
She set that one aside for herself and then changed the rest to match some of the
less painful memories she'd seen in Max's head. She offered them to him then and his
long fingers sorted through them before he looked at her, an expression of sheer
gratitude on his face.
The altered pictures couldn't be found, obviously, so taking one last look at
Kyle's mournful face, she blew the picture up, creating a small fire. The guard had
rushed in, backhanding her to the wall. The Skin used the rest of their daily water rations
to put out the fire and they went thirsty for the night. She tried to apologize to him,
but he brushed it aside, tucking the pictures under the cot's mattress. Wrapping an
arm around her shoulders, he told her stories, little ancedotes about all she had missed,
being careful to edit out the Imposter.
They always slept together at night, squished together on the small cot. He had tried
to sleep on the cold floor once he'd recovered, but she wouldn't let him, always moving
down with him whenever he tried to slip out of bed at night. That night she felt him
slid a photograph from under the mattress, felt him tuck it under his shirt. In
the morning, when they awakened before the guard brought a tray of food in, she felt him
turn his face to the pillow, trying to hide his tears from her. The routine continued
on for two more nights. On the third morning, this time he turned to her, grief in his
face and she wrapped her arms around him, letting him weep. He never took the picture
out before bed again.
Life in their little world settled into a routine, which was abruptly shattered
when Isabel walked brazenly through the door. She looked nervously at her cellmate, but,
aside from a barely noticable flinch in his eyes, he didn't react to the newcomer.
The Isabel looked disappointed for a moment and then shrugged, turning into Lonnie.
The Dupe had come, she explained, to bid them adios. Apparently, the Imposter had almost
completed its mission. It was impregnated with Max's son. Since a Skin offspring couldn't
survive in Earth's atmosphere and since Max didn't know he'd mated with a Skin, he
believed the only way to save their child was to go home. Lonnie took great pleasure
in telling them that the bad guys were winning. She, knowing Lonnie well by now, allowed
a small whimper to escape her lips and a smirk of mirth crossed the Dupe's lips.
Satisfied she had caused them anguish, Lonnie left them alone.
Silence fell in their cell and then he strode across the room, hugging her tightly,
pressing her face into his shoulder. Burying his face in her hair, he angled his lips
so that he could whisper into her ears. He told her then how he had managed to somehow
connect with the real Isabel and that they shared several dreams. He hadn't told his lost
love the truth because he was afraid she would try to rescue them. Now, however, it
was imperative that they got a warning out. She managed a tiny nod. She couldn't dreamwalk,
didn't know how he could, but she would use her own energy to help him. He would warn
Isabel and then once Nicholas found out what he had done, she would die. The Skin
wouldn't believe that any human would be able to dreamwalk. She hugged him tighter and
she suddenly realized that if the Skins got her, his spirit might finally break then.
She couldn't bear that.
Thinking quickly, she led him over to the cot, where they sat down. He quickly
captured her hands and she paused a moment to enjoy the brush of his fingers against
her palms. Then she outlined the plans for their escape, knowing that she would be
left behind one way or another. Maybe he knew, though, because that night, he climbed
onto the cot first and pulled her against his chest, settling her head against his
shoulder. She didn't comment on the change in position, just enjoyed the comfort of
being held by him, because she knew, and maybe he did too, that tomorrow, he'd have to
let her go.
ten hours and I really planned on studying before bed. However, Silverbee
left me lovely feedback and then suckerpunched me with a request for
the resurrection of Alex. I couldn't bloody well resist that, now could
I? Dammit. I'm gonna be up all night now studying. You see what
feedback does to me? I'm like a junkie. *sigh* Anyways, this is
the sequel to "Russian Roulette." It could stand on its own,
but I wrote it with the intention of creating a new mini-series.
Mostly an AU fic, but general warning for "Cry Your Name," "Meet the Dupes,"
and "Baby, It's You."
Three Card Monte
She wasn't sure how long she had been in here. They kept in dark,
and the days slid into night so easily. Rath joked once about modifying
the room into a dungeon, but Lonnie had shot him a look and he subsided,
although she still saw the gleeful glint in his eyes.
They didn't come by much anymore. Before, they liked to stop in
regularly to taunt her with updates, about how easily the others had
accepted the Imposter in her place. It used to hurt, but now she could
barely remember their faces. As she weakened, Nicholas was able to get through
her defenses easier and easier. Soon, he would be able to pentrate the tight
walls she kept around the location of the Granolith. If they taken her
a month before they traveled to New York, she might not have fought so hard,
but she remembered sitting with a devasted Max on a park bench, offering the
scant comfort she could. It was one of the few memories she knew was real.
The food they rationed out to her was bland and mushy. No need to waste
seasonings on a prisoner. She thought she tried to escape once, had tried
to mindwarp the guard into believing she was still in her cell. It had worked,
she thought, and she slipped out past him, but she had gotten lost in the maze
of corriders and eventually the warp became too much for her to contain. She
fainted. When she woke up, she was shackled to a wall, with Nicholas sitting on
the cot. It had almost been amusing watching a ten year old boy berate her. All
the humor had disappeared when he gave her to Lonnie and Rath as a plaything.
After that, she realized why her double had taken the chance to flee them in
Roswell.
A flash of movement caught the corner of her eye and she turned her head,
watching as her cellmate roused to consciousness. Nicholas, and through him Kivar,
was growing frustrated with the boy. Though he was only human, someone had
constructed a strong mental shield in his mind. Nicholas couldn't pentrate it.
Each time he tried and failed, the boy suffered.
She could remember when he had been thrown in here, like a sack of garbage.
He'd been bleeding from a head wound, the blood streaming down to obscure most of
his facial features. She hadn't recognized him until those blue eyes opened and a
hoarse voice whispered her name. The shock of it sent her scuttling back to a shadowed
corner. She hadn't heard her name in such a long time. Here they referred to her
as "Max's bitch," "The Roswell Slut," or a mocking "Your Majesty." Groggily, he
had pushed up to his hands and knees, raising his head to look at her through the
crimison stains.
It seemed like some cruel trick at first, and she had retreated again. Something
broke in his eyes and he let himself slump back to the ground. Some unknown
part of her that survived Lonnie's disciplines had her stepping forward. She became
convinced when his breathing slowed nearly to a stop and with his last bit of energy,
he whispered Isabel's name. Leaping forward, she used the little bit of power she always
kept in reserve to mend the worse of the damage. She always rationed her water throughout
the day, keeping some for the next day in case they decided not to feed her. She used
it now, trickling it through his cracked lips. He started to cough, and she leaned forward,
kissing him, so not to waste any of the precious liquid.
His recovery was slow and it didn't help that Nicholas began the mind invasions
almost immediately. The Skin brought pictures with him, images of grief and sorrow.
She leapt on them as soon as the door swung shut behind Nicholas. There was one of
Isabel, her icy mask cracked, the strains of grief clear on her face. Maria was leaning
heavily against Michael, as if she depended on him to keep her standing. Max was leaning
against a locker, his hands shoved in his pockets, his head bowed. There was also one of
the Imposter, standing there looking up at the Sheriff, its fingers linked with Kyle's.
She set that one aside for herself and then changed the rest to match some of the
less painful memories she'd seen in Max's head. She offered them to him then and his
long fingers sorted through them before he looked at her, an expression of sheer
gratitude on his face.
The altered pictures couldn't be found, obviously, so taking one last look at
Kyle's mournful face, she blew the picture up, creating a small fire. The guard had
rushed in, backhanding her to the wall. The Skin used the rest of their daily water rations
to put out the fire and they went thirsty for the night. She tried to apologize to him,
but he brushed it aside, tucking the pictures under the cot's mattress. Wrapping an
arm around her shoulders, he told her stories, little ancedotes about all she had missed,
being careful to edit out the Imposter.
They always slept together at night, squished together on the small cot. He had tried
to sleep on the cold floor once he'd recovered, but she wouldn't let him, always moving
down with him whenever he tried to slip out of bed at night. That night she felt him
slid a photograph from under the mattress, felt him tuck it under his shirt. In
the morning, when they awakened before the guard brought a tray of food in, she felt him
turn his face to the pillow, trying to hide his tears from her. The routine continued
on for two more nights. On the third morning, this time he turned to her, grief in his
face and she wrapped her arms around him, letting him weep. He never took the picture
out before bed again.
Life in their little world settled into a routine, which was abruptly shattered
when Isabel walked brazenly through the door. She looked nervously at her cellmate, but,
aside from a barely noticable flinch in his eyes, he didn't react to the newcomer.
The Isabel looked disappointed for a moment and then shrugged, turning into Lonnie.
The Dupe had come, she explained, to bid them adios. Apparently, the Imposter had almost
completed its mission. It was impregnated with Max's son. Since a Skin offspring couldn't
survive in Earth's atmosphere and since Max didn't know he'd mated with a Skin, he
believed the only way to save their child was to go home. Lonnie took great pleasure
in telling them that the bad guys were winning. She, knowing Lonnie well by now, allowed
a small whimper to escape her lips and a smirk of mirth crossed the Dupe's lips.
Satisfied she had caused them anguish, Lonnie left them alone.
Silence fell in their cell and then he strode across the room, hugging her tightly,
pressing her face into his shoulder. Burying his face in her hair, he angled his lips
so that he could whisper into her ears. He told her then how he had managed to somehow
connect with the real Isabel and that they shared several dreams. He hadn't told his lost
love the truth because he was afraid she would try to rescue them. Now, however, it
was imperative that they got a warning out. She managed a tiny nod. She couldn't dreamwalk,
didn't know how he could, but she would use her own energy to help him. He would warn
Isabel and then once Nicholas found out what he had done, she would die. The Skin
wouldn't believe that any human would be able to dreamwalk. She hugged him tighter and
she suddenly realized that if the Skins got her, his spirit might finally break then.
She couldn't bear that.
Thinking quickly, she led him over to the cot, where they sat down. He quickly
captured her hands and she paused a moment to enjoy the brush of his fingers against
her palms. Then she outlined the plans for their escape, knowing that she would be
left behind one way or another. Maybe he knew, though, because that night, he climbed
onto the cot first and pulled her against his chest, settling her head against his
shoulder. She didn't comment on the change in position, just enjoyed the comfort of
being held by him, because she knew, and maybe he did too, that tomorrow, he'd have to
let her go.