Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone
Part 10

Moira stepped back as Stryfe's eyes flickered at her words. Surprise, maybe? She watched him slip into a stupor, a drowsy haze induced by the codeine. He seemed to react relatively strongly to it, for the dose she'd given him; she scribbled a note to herself not to overdo its application.

She had told him she would leave for a few hours while it wore off. And so she would. But first, there were a few things to take care of. She wiped the light sweat from his face and neck, and felt more gently at the swollen sinuses. That had to be painful. Moira sighed softly and took another blood sample for testing, tossed the first light blanket that came to hand over his still form, then retreated to her laboratory to let him alone as promised. She had a good idea how long it would be before he woke, after all, and could check via monitor if need be.

The tests should be finished by the time he awoke; that was good. She lined up her equipment, thoughtfully, automatically making a mental schedule of the organization. Proportional white blood cell counts, certainly... histamine levels... and of course the more advanced tests that searched for nucleotide sequences or protein structures common to assorted cold and flu viruses. Naturally those couldn't be absolutely certain; there were too many varieties for that, but they could serve as a clue. She'd never have been able to run them at all without the "special" technology here, though. Even with it, she would start them first; they didn't take over any necessary instruments for the other tests, and they would take the longest.

After a moment's thought, Moira tapped her pen against her teeth and added a check for Legacy to the procedural sketch she was jotting down. The idea that he would have contracted that was almost laughable, and yet... she couldn't simply dismiss it; doing so would be far too irresponsible. It did seem unlikely, to be sure; what kind of fool would release a virus like that and not take steps to ensure that he would be immune?

But then, as far as could be determined from the timing and his own words on the moon, Stryfe had released Legacy as a sort of final strike, from beyond death -- hence the name, perhaps -- so if he'd expected to be dead, one never knew...

Still, that test -- rather to her relief -- came out negative, as did the other, less specific and accordingly less definitive virus tests. There was nothing to indicate a bacterial infection, either. On the other hand, his eosinophils were high in relation to other types of white blood cells, which was usually associated with allergic reactions. High histamine, too, she noted without surprise.

Moira glanced at her watch, then frowned at it as she realized she had left it set in another mode to time one of her experiments instead of showing the actual time. She adjusted it, and promptly frowned again. Stryfe probably wouldn't be alert again just yet; it hadn't been long enough. She'd been almost too efficient planning and executing her tests.

And she had promised to stay away until the codeine wore off. With a long sigh, Moira stood up and paced the length of her lab, back and forth, bringing a hand up to rub the back of her neck and shoulder. Really, she should consider herself fortunate not to have any worse symptoms -- and she did, she did -- but these everlasting influenza-style aches were becoming wearing.

Sinister had even suggested that the aches could be due to weariness themselves, given the hours she appeared to work. Yes, Sinister. Moira's lips twitched as she glanced at the locked cabinet where she kept the files he'd astounded her by sending, along with a surprisingly polite request for an exchange of information.

His data had been useful, and the results she'd attempted to duplicate appeared reliable, so she'd treated it -- very cautiously -- as a good-faith offer and sent him carefully-chosen results of her own. In particular, ones that she couldn't really imagine aiding him towards any nefarious purpose. Replications of his own experiments, for instance, that could improve statistical reliability but not provide too much new information....

Granted the initial hesitant, professional courtesy had degenerated rapidly, with further correspondence, into enthusiastic philosophical arguments and the occasional nationalistic insult in between the scientific exchanges, but that was really rather invigorating. Still. It hadn't been a particularly implausible explanation, except that she'd worked just as hard and just as long, as intensely, on other occasions without the same difficulties.

She wondered if he had communicated with her before under another name. An alias for the general scientific community.... If so, however, why reveal himself now? Perhaps it was the specific interest.

"Mum?"

Moira turned, a bit startled, to see Rahne standing in the doorway with a half-shy, half-amused smile on her face and a tray in her hands. "Aye?"

"There ye are. A brought ye some lunch -- ye scold Stryfe for not eating and then forget tae eat yuirself. Can't have that, can we?" the girl replied. "Now come on, ye shouldna be eating in the lab, either."

"He should be waking soon enough, lass." She gestured at the test results on her desk. "A finally resorted tae yelling at him, called him a coward, even -- aye, donnae say it, A ken 'twas dangerous. A think he was aboot tae answer me when he started sneezing instead; his sinuses are swollen, too, sae A ran some tests and A think he's allergic tae something -- A just donnae ken what. He moved on his own, though, tried to pull his arm away when A gave him a shot for the pain, sae when he's awake again A plan tae start him on physical therapy -- and A willnae let him refuse this time, either."

"Good!" Rahne grinned -- Moira had warmed to the subject and was clearly pleased that her patient had finally decided to start moving. "He's nae awakened yet, though? Then ye have time for a meal, and yui're going tae have one." She paused, and added mischievously, "And A willnae let ye refuse this time, either. He can wait a bit. A've already eaten; if ye want me tae check on him before ye finish A will."

Moira chuckled and followed her child -- ward no longer, as Rahne was of legal age now -- out to the kitchen. She wanted to strike while the iron was hot, of course, but descending on Stryfe as soon as he woke up probably wouldn't build confidence in her, as she'd already offered him a bit of privacy. Besides, it would indeed be wise to eat lunch before what promised to be a decidedly strenuous encounter.

* * * * * * *

A sort of vague awareness crept in amongst the dizzying fog of unconsciousness, and Stryfe awoke. As usual, he didn't open his eyes. He could tell the light was still there, anyway, and if Moira or Rahne were there it would be only one more reason not to react, not to give anything away.

But he already had, hadn't he? He'd been too worn down to resist, and Moira had known it, had known his mind as surely as any telepath, even.... He quelled the urge to groan in despair. That was why he felt so much more sluggish than usual; she'd drugged him; she must have gotten what she wanted by now, and he was as good as dead.

His life had already been worthless to him. Why should he feel such sickening fear at the thought that it was now equally worthless to his captor? Perhaps... perhaps, now that it was such an immediate likelihood... perhaps he didn't want to die after all.

He felt utterly miserable. His head hurt, and on top of the usual discomfort, pain still assailed him from his shoulders, chest, and abdomen as if he'd been doing some sort of unaccustomed exercise. Which, as he couldn't move, should have been impossible. The sharp aches and the lingering effects of the codeine -- yes, that was what she'd said she had injected -- conspired to make unconsciousness inviting, tempting; he was drifting again,

Until he brought himself to full alertness and considerable agony by sneezing again, three more times, three more explosions that convulsed his chest and felt as though they would somehow crush his eyes. He flopped back against the pillow, gasping, trying to hold a cry inside his chest, and winced as the abrupt motion jostled his pounding head again. And then he sniffled. Which he thought for a moment was going to start him on another sneezing fit, but luckily it didn't...

Apparently it was not at all difficult to feel worse than he had a moment ago. He was certainly managing to. And now he was fully awake, so all the pain was harder to ignore. Stryfe gave up and opened his eyes to the ceiling again, noticing dully that Moira didn't seem to be present, as she probably would have noticed and approached him at that point -- and then he froze.

He'd... flopped back against the pillows.

He had felt that quite clearly. Not merely in his jolted skull -- he'd felt the impact, felt his shoulders strike against soft cloth --

And if he had fallen back, then he must first have lifted himself partly off the bed. He must have moved.

He turned his head, with an effort, looking down to where his arm should be. He wasn't chilled anymore, and now saw why -- he'd been covered with an extra blanket. It was soft, thin, and dyed with pink and burgundy paisley on a soft gray background. It appeared to have been designed by someone with a slightly demented sense of aesthetics.

Moira had said he'd almost pulled away from her. She'd been lying. Hadn't she? But he'd just moved, moments ago.... He would try. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the empty room, and tried to lift his arm.

And the blanket lifted.

His breathing rasping slightly, Stryfe moved the limb sideways, and managed to shake it free of the blanket and sheet, and bring it into his field of vision again, turn the hand over, clumsily flex his fingers. His muscles screamed at him in protest and he trembled from the shoulder to the hand with exertion, but he'd done it, he had moved --

She hadn't been lying. All those times she told him he could move again, all those times he'd dismissed her words as a deceitful attempt to start him on a futile quest, to make a fool of him, all those times he hadn't listened, she hadn't been lying. He could move. Far more than he had imagined possible after the mountain -- he cut off that thought again with a shudder.

"A told ye you could." The memory rang again in his ears.

Moira hadn't been lying when she said he could move.

Exhausted, he let his arm fall again, this time on top of the bizarre covering. Hope... how could he even dare to hope? She would probably come back in a few minutes and get rid of him, or not come back at all and let him wither away in solitude, as he'd thought he wanted her to do in the first place.

He felt the sneeze coming, this time, and managed a deep enough breath that on expulsion it didn't seem to cramp his lungs as severely. He still felt like moaning as his headache spiked sharply in intensity and then climbed onto a new plateau and settled in for a long stay.

He didn't want to be left alone, not now, not when he had finally discovered that there was just the slightest chance he could recover at least a small part of his abilities... but he had broken, and surely there was no reason to expect help anymore, when his cooperation would no longer be worth acquiring.

Stryfe sighed, and cursed himself as the exhalation carried a faint whimper with it. Now he wanted -- he wanted someone to come, to take care of him until he could do it for himself, if he ever could, even if he ended in some flatscan prison; he wanted someone to care about him and comfort him as Apocalypse never had, as he hated his "parents" for never doing, as they should have done.

He wanted that as he had tried to forget he did ever since one day, in a slight childhood illness, he'd asked for it and shriveled as the High Lord scoffed and scolded him for weakness --

And he still did, some lingering, insidious idea that perhaps they wouldn't really despise him, perhaps they would be different, letting some part of his mind cling to an idiotic dream. He was a fool. He hated himself for this weakness, defended against it by encouraging the growing resentment of the two women who would see his physical weakness -- he could hardly help that; it was far too late, but this one at least he could hide.

Yet another sneezing fit racked him, splashing pain into his head, around his eyes. He heard quick footsteps, he thought, and after the fourth he opened his eyes, dizzily, to find Moira beside him, her arms supporting him and easing a little of the strain. He barely had time to notice that she seemed to be trying to look concerned before a final sneeze forced his eyes shut again.

He tried to relax, afterwards, tried not to tense against the pain shooting from startled and abused muscles. If he didn't relax, it would hurt more, and she might decide to drug him again -- though at this point he wasn't sure why he should even bother trying to prevent it; it wasn't as though she couldn't have gotten whatever she wanted already....

"Shhh, Stryfe, easy -- here, as long as ye've gotten half sitting up ye might as well finish the job." Her voice was surprisingly gentle as she pushed him upright, adjusting the bedcoverings slightly before calling, "Rahne, hand me the box of tissues, would you lass?"

The pain in his lower back nearly made him pass out again, and he gasped -- he would not scream! With great effort, he managed to flex his legs, bending at the knees despite the complaints from his muscles, concentrating on the feeling of the sheet sliding against his knees. That helped, somewhat; so did leaning heavily back against Moira's arm.

"Och, A'm sorry, A dinnae think aboot how that would hurt!" Why should she care if she hurt him? She grunted slightly and slid further behind him, half sitting on the bed, to support his head. Just as well; he'd been wondering how much longer his neck would do so. He supposed her action made sense -- he was massive enough that holding his torso up would be a strain.

"There. Blow yuir nose." He tried. It did help; he could breathe a little more freely afterwards, as she discarded the wad and used a fresh tissue to wipe his eyes. They were watering badly -- he was not crying; it was only from whatever was making him sneeze. Fortunately, Moira didn't comment on it.

"There, now. A'm nae sure what the matter is, but all the tests A could run point tae some sort of allergy. A'll get rid of the allergen as soon as A ken what it is, but until then all A can really do is give ye an antihistamine."

He shook his head slightly. She frowned. He swallowed hard, opened his mouth, then closed it again and tried to look over his shoulder toward the water bottle. He'd let his neck stiffen too much; he couldn't see it -- but apparently Rahne understood, and held it up for him.

Stryfe closed his eyes as he finally accepted the straw and let the cool moisture run over his tongue, down his throat -- raised in the desert, even in luxury, he would never lose a certain special appreciation for water. He drank greedily enough that after several swallows Moira took the bottle and pulled it away.

"A'm glad ye decided tae start drinking the water, now, but ye cannae make up for the past few weeks all at once! Now, ye were saying?"

He was? Well... yes, he had been about to speak, and this wasn't worth the battle right now -- "It... won't work. Antihistamines -- have no effect. Mutant." His voice was rough, and weaker than he would have liked, but that was only to be expected. He would not just let it fail him there, though. "Mutant metabolic pathways... can be a little different."

Moira raised an eyebrow. "Aye, that A ken, but that's nae an effect A've encountered before. A guess ye'd ken, though."

He scowled at her suddenly. As long as he'd decided to talk, he might as well ask. "What does ken mean?"

"Ye dunnae ken what 'ken' means?" She was mocking him! And from the sentence itself, he abruptly realized what it meant, what it had to mean, and felt like a complete idiot for not having realized it from context before. "Och, sorry, it means 'know.'"

"I figured that out!" he snapped, sullen now, and heard her sigh. Felt her sigh, too, since he was still leaning on her.

"Aye, well... enough on that. Ye've begun moving aboot, now, that's very good; truth tae tell, if ye'd waited much longer A'm nae sure ye'd have been able tae get started after all. As it is, despite all the harm ye've done yuirself waiting sae lang, we ought tae be able tae get ye back on yuir feet soon enough, if ye put the effort intae it."

She rambled on for a few minutes, detailing her plans for physical therapy and explaining how long she estimated it would be before he could stand, before he could walk, cautioning him frequently that she *was* only estimating and couldn't guarantee that it wouldn't be sooner or later, warning him that it would be hard, of course, and painful, but she was sure he could get through it....

He listened in growing incredulity. Physical therapy? Getting him back on his feet? He'd begun, just barely, to believe it was possible -- but what motive could she possibly have for pursuing this healing, when she'd surely already found a way to get what she wanted?

Could it be that she really wanted to heal him? Ridiculous. He finally broke into her spiel. "Why are you doing this?"

"What?"

"Why are you doing this?" More heated this time. "What do you want? Why keep on with plans like that? What do you want with a wrecked clone?"

Behind him, Moira went very still. Then he felt her arms go around his ribs and press. Her voice, when she finally answered, was low and fierce. "A wrecked clone? Is that all ye can see of yuirself? Ye're a man, Stryfe, nae a biology experiment, and ye're injured but ye can recover. What do A want? A want tae have ye healed, have ye walk again.

"A doubt ye'll ever be back in quite as good condition as before, A willnae lie, but how much ye do get back is yuir call. Tae teach ye that both ye and everyone else in the world does have worth. Why am A doing it? Tae getwhat A just told ye A want, and because 'tis my duty."

A man, not a biology experiment. He did want to believe that. Could she be telling him the truth? She seemed honest enough about the prospects for his recovery -- oath, it was going to be rough, though, if just now was any indication. Could she have known how the pain, and having to move his own legs to alleviate it, would only spark a flare of determination to fight through...?

But healing him couldn't be her only motive; it made no sense. She had to be after something more; that sort of altruism was implausible, and surely whatever personal satisfaction she might receive from exercising professional skill couldn't account for nagging him as she had, and apparently planned to continue, much less the rest of the trouble she would have to take.

Besides, it didn't matter. "What's the point?" he muttered, remembering. "I'm burnt out--" Oh, how bitter the words; he could almost taste them... "and why bother with physical therapy, even, when the best I could hope is to be able to walk around a cell? Don't try to fool me; I know better -- I'd only be locked up, if I did recover."

"What A'm hoping," Moira replied pensively, "is that it willnae be necessary tae lock ye up, after all's said and done."

* * * * * * *