Chapter 31: Simon's Playground

For a long time, there was nothing. I drifted in endless darkness, far from sight and sound.

How long had I been here? I didn't care. I felt warm, safe, and completely at peace; nothing mattered anymore.

Strangely familiar images surfaced in my mind, welling up from deep within. A man with a roguish smile and bad haircut, children playing in a stream, a beautiful house nestled in far-off hills. They were hazy and elusive, slipping away like wisps of smoke, but I knew they were important. I yearned for more, but I was just so tired…

"It's okay, Laura. That's right; just relax."

What was that? Who was that? I couldn't remember, but their voice was calm and comforting.

"Everything's going to be alright."

As I laid back the darkness rose up around my head, cradling me gently as a sonorous hum seeped in at the edge of hearing. It rose and fell in a soothing, almost hypnotic melody that lay somewhere between a hymn and a lullaby, and my eyes fluttered closed as it soaked into my mind. Why fight it? It was so much easier not to think, to just lie back and let it lull me to sleep. Everything... was going to be... alright...

Time passed. It could have been seconds, or it could have been centuries, but I was awakened from my doze by a sudden blaze of light. A star exploded into existence, its corona a shimmering nimbus of blue and gold, and as I stared dumbfoundedly a voice buzzed noisily in my ears. It was different from the one before; female, clipped and precise, and for some reason the name 'Mary Poppins' leapt to mind as it spoke.

"Please do not be afraid; I am here to help," it said. "I am a Weaponised Independent Subconscious Projection, or W.I.S.P., designated 'Inky' by my operator."

Inky? For the briefest moment I smelt a steaming mug of...something, but then the scent vanished into the foggy recesses of my mind. Gathering up all my willpower, I tried to force it to surface once more, but collapsed back as exhaustion settled over me like a cloak. What was happening to me? Why couldn't I focus?

"You are experiencing an altered state of consciousness; more specifically, a medically induced coma," Inky said, while I grit my teeth and did my best to listen, "This was necessary to allow emergency aid to be administered, but changing circumstances now necessitate assisted resuscitation. Please stand by."

Inky's corona flared, and then a beam of blue-gold light stabbed out into the darkness, vanishing off into the distance. She flared again, and again, and with each blinding pulse another ray of light appeared, until she hung at the centre of an intricate web of brilliant glowing threads, which hummed, crackled, and sparked spectacularly whenever they drew close to one another.

"Please be aware; emergency resuscitation procedures can sometimes be overwhelming for the patient. Try to remain calm during the process," Inky said, rather ominously. "Preparing for cognitive reintegration."

Her corona dimmed, and in the darkness new light appeared. It poured in from every direction, surging down the blue-gold threads to wash smoothly across the surface of the Wisp, growing in power and intensity until I could see nothing else. I felt a pulse of fear, even through the fog, and suddenly every hair was on end.

"Transferring control...formulating Eigenbridge interface," Inky said clinically, "Initialising."

There was an unimaginable noise, and then the Wisp suddenly exploded into a cloud of blue-gold motes. The world swirled, lurched, and then reasserted itself in a storm of unbearable sensation. Under my fingertips I could feel rough, serrated fibres, tearing at me with every tiny motion, while ice-cold air raked across my skin. With a gasp I opened my eyes, and dazzling spotlights far above blazed like the sun, burning agonising holes deep into my retinas. I tried to cry out, but all that emerged was a pained, rattling choke.

"Dial it back, Inky!" someone cried. A cool, soothing hand covered my eyes, shielding them from the glare, "It's too much for her!"

"Confirmed; recalibrating," Inky's voice buzzed, and then, "System alert! Synaptic misfire!"

"What? Where? Oh, sh-"

A sharp shock coursed through my mind, crackling like a bolt of lightning, and then-

I was thirty, and watched proudly through a beat-up camcorder as Coop took his first wobbly steps across the sun-dappled living room. One step, two steps...he tumbled over his favourite dinosaur, and there were tears. I dropped the camcorder and scooped him up, rocking him gently until he slept.

-with another crack I was back in the room. My mind fizzed and snapped, and I could feel my hands twitching spasmodically as my boots beat out a violent tattoo on the floor. My breath, when it came, came in short, ragged, useless gasps.

"Get it under control, Inky!" the voice snapped, "Use an arrestor if you have to! Do not let that surge reach the Eeebie!"

There was another jolt-

-and I was twenty-four, meeting Clint's team-mate for the time. She was everything I'd feared; smart, gorgeous, with a deadpan sardonic wit. I shook her hand with a strained smile, and hoped it wasn't too obvious just how jealous I was. She smiled back, but I was sure she knew.

"Critical alert! Neuronal avalanche-"

"I see it! Goddess, why are these things never simple?"

I was twenty-two, finishing my late shift at 'Pancake Paradise'. The door jangled, and with an irritated sigh I looked up to see a man shaking the last of the summer rainstorm off his coat. Our gazes met, for just an instant, and when he smiled my heart soared. Just closing? For that roguish grin, I'd stay open all night.

"-vital functions are now in danger! Activating contingency measures."

"Wait, Inky. No, Inky! Focus on the Eeebie! We'll fix the rest later!"

"Confirmed. E.B.I. reinforcement underway."

I was sixteen, sitting alone atop a half-built ruin in the Philadelphia Badlands. Bradley had chickened out after I'd cut the first padlock, but I didn't mind. Mom was working nights this week, so I could stay out as long as I wanted. As evening fell, I pulled out my trusty can of spray-paint and got to work.

"Reinforcement complete. Commencing stress-test-"

"Skip it! I'll hold it together myself if I have to!"

"Confirmed. Proceeding with emergency activation of E.B.I.."

"C'mon, Laura," the voice said softly, "Stay with me, please? We're almost done-"

I was twelve years old, plucking grapes from the bowl beside my Dad's hospital bed. He was too weak to rise, but reached out with a shaking hand to gently ruffle my hair while a smile danced in his eyes. My Mom laughed as they talked, but I could see her hands trembling as she held him close. The doctors came, and he was gone.

"E.B.I., online. Neural mimicry, online. Telemetry stable. Asserting control."

I catapulted upright, took a deep, reflexive breath, and screamed. It tore through the air, primal, deep, and raw, and I could feel the tears streaming down my face as my heart raced and my lungs burned.

"Laura? Laura!" Thera's face appeared in my vision, his eyes filled with concern, "Look at me. You're okay now. You're back!"

"I...I…" I stared at him tearfully, and then the words all came tumbling out at once, "I saw Dad!"

Another sob caught in my throat, and then I threw my arms around Thera's neck, weeping like a broken-hearted child. His shoulders tensed for just a moment, as if he wasn't quite sure how to respond, but then he sighed and wrapped me in a tight, consoling embrace.

"Oh, Goddess," he murmured, as I sobbed. "I'm sorry. I really am."

"He was-" I gasped, "He was so thin...and weak, and…and..."

"Sssh; it's okay. It's okay..."

Thera continued to murmur comforting nothings, and my cries slowly lessened until they were no more than faint, shuddering breaths. At that moment, I suddenly realised exactly who I was clinging to and quickly disengaged with a mumbled, self-conscious apology. He did likewise, scrambling back to a respectful distance, and then an awkward silence descended between us while we each waited for the other to make the first move.

"Um, sorry," I apologised again, "For...um-"

"Don't worry about it," he said, and looked at me carefully, "I need to ask; do you know who I am? What's my name?"

I frowned, "What kind of question is that?"

"Please. It's important."

"Fine. You're Thera, and you're some kind of wizard medic who's been sniffing around Missouri and scaring Dr. Strange. You pretend that you're aloof and better than the rest of us, but you're actually a massive softy. That enough for you?"

An eyebrow went up, "Interesting precis, but I'll take it. How about you?"

"Are you serious?" I said, and he nodded, "I'm Laura Barton, and, um...what more do you want me to say?"

"Nah, that's fine," he said, "I just wanted to make sure everything's in...um, working order."

"Can't you wave your hand and check?"

"Just because I'm a 'wizard medic' doesn't mean I don't try to do things properly, you know," Thera ran his hand across his beanie, "How're you feeling?"

"Like shit," I said bluntly, "Tired, achy as hell…in fact, I'd say I feel about as good as you look."

"That bad, eh? My goodness."

I laughed, not because it was funny, per se, but because right then I desperately needed something to laugh at. Thera's injuries had looked bad enough back on stage, but now they genuinely hurt to look at. His face was a bruised, bloodied mess, with swollen cheekbones and two deep black eyes. A particularly nasty weal adorned his right cheek, presumably from a baton strike, and there were boot imprints and puncture marks covering the backs of both his hands. Never mind how I felt; how was he still upright?

"I'm sorry," I said, "I shouldn't laugh, but…doesn't that hurt?"

"A bit, but it's all superficial," he shrugged, "Your injuries took priority."

"Oh," for a moment, I wasn't quite sure what to say, "Um, thanks…but what the hell just happened?"

"Quite a lot, actually," he said, "There were...complications in bringing you round."

"'Complications'?" I said incredulously, "I saw my life flash before my eyes! I thought that was just a figure of speech!"

"Well, now you know differently," he said, and added, "So, your Dad-"

"I don't want to talk about it. It happened, he died, we moved on," I said brusquely, "How long was I out?"

"Well…the better part of three hours."

"Three hours? Christ!" I said, "Do you have any idea where we are?"

"Actually, yeah. They drove us back across the state," he said, "From what I've been able to gather, we're in a patch of nowhere somewhere near Marshfield. Doesn't really narrow it down, I know, but…"

"Look on the bright side, it saves us a long drive home!" I smiled, but Thera rolled his eyes, "So, um, how're you holding up? Did Pexley say anything about Poppy?"

When Thera spoke, his voice was tight, "Yeah. He...made a point of telling me that he wasn't going to post guards or lock the door, and then he described-" his voice cracked, and he stopped for a moment to collect himself, "-he described what he'd have his men do to her if I'm gone when his torturer buddy arrives. Graphically."

"She'll be fine, Thera," I said, and hoped that I sounded more confident than I felt, "I promise you, they'll find her."

"If they do, it's only thanks to you," he replied, quietly, "You were really brave, Laura. He could've killed you."

"I'm not sure 'brave' is the right word, really. Stupid's more like it," I said, and then looked at him suspiciously, "Hold up a sec. Was that an actual, genuine compliment, or did Pexley hit me much, much harder than I thought?"

"It's true!"

"Sure," I looked at him disbelievingly, "C'mon, any moment now you're going to realise that you've let on how much you care, and then there'll be the backpedalling-"

"I'm serious, Laura," he said back, and I was surprised to see tears in his eyes, "Vi and I...we screwed up. We thought that if Keame'd go after anyone, he'd go after your family. 'Never occurred to us that Pexley was running his own ops, or that he'd marked Poppy or the other kids for kidnapping. I...guess they were just as invisible to us as everyone else."

"Now you're not being fair to yourself," I said, "You two've done more for those kids than anyone, Thera! The reason she got picked was because they could see how much you cared for her."

"Yeah. Whoops."

"No. Not whoops!" I said firmly, "Look, after what happened at the warehouse, I was really scared that if I kept doing what I was doing, Keame's mercs would come after my family as well. Do you know what Clint said?"

"Something inane?"

"He said that the moment they win is the moment they stop us from being ourselves! When those kids had nobody you took them under your wing, cared for them, and did your best to keep them safe! You should be proud of that, and I'm not going to sit here and let you beat yourself up for daring to be compassionate! This isn't your fault, Thera! It's Pexley's-" I slammed my hand down on the carpet, and he jumped backwards in surprise, "-so fuck him, and fuck his network of spies, thugs, and torturers!"

"That might take a while," Thera remarked, "Although maybe if we took shifts-"

"You know what I mean!" I said, and winced, "Ah, shit; my jaw!"

"It hurts?" he frowned in sudden concern, "That's not right. I mean, you probably shouldn't be in a rush to find a mirror, but-"

"Wait, what?" I quickly probed the side of my face. Soft, swollen skin yielded at my touch, and pain lanced across my cheek, "Damnit, ow!"

"Okay…" Thera inspected the space above his arm for just a moment, and then tapped lightly on the air, "How about now?"

My jaw tingled slightly, but when I tried again the pain was gone, "Much better, thanks. What'd you do?"

"Had Inky up the dampening. She's doing her best, but she's got her corona full as it is," he said, and added, "If I'm honest, though,...it's not a great look. When Pexley throws a punch, he really throws a punch."

"No kidding," I prodded again, a little harder this time, "How bad is it?"

There was a brief, anxious silence, and then Thera clambered carefully to his feet, "Can you stand? I need to check your balance."

"What? Oh, I...think so," I said, and got to my feet with a bit of help from a nearby chair, "So...where are we?"

"Hold on," he peered deeply into each eye in turn, and then nodded in satisfaction, "No nystagmus, even dilation…"

"Is that good?"

"It's a start."

"Glad to hear it," I said, and looked around, "Is this it? Really?"

"Yup," he said, and stepped aside with a mocking little bow, "Welcome to... 'The Playground'."

I had to admit, I was confused, but... I was also impressed. From context, I'd kind of assumed that 'The Playground' was either a gladiatorial death pit or some kind of torture chamber, but this wasn't either of those things. From what I could see, through the spotlit gloom, was that it was lavish. None of the furniture was ostentatious, but at the same time it didn't need to be. Thanks to all the time Clint and I'd spent furnishing and re-furnishing our home (and the even greater amount of time I'd spent mooning over home improvement shows) meant I could recognise genuine quality when I saw it, and this was it.

Of everything in the room, the most impressive piece of furniture was the enormous, throne-like chair sat in pride of place in the centre of the room. It was elegant, with long, sweeping curves, and stood immediately in front of it was a low, glass-topped table, presumably for drinks. The throne was flanked by two, slightly smaller chairs, and then yet smaller ones were spaced at regular intervals along the length of the room, laid out in a slight arc that focused on an apparently random spot on the plain black wall. On the far side, away from the seating, stood a long, intricately carved mahogany sideboard. A collection of slightly dusty glasses stood in neat, ordered rows across its top, and through its crystal doors was an extensive collection of bottles, filled to the brim with enticing, and likely flammable liquids.

"Wow," I said, and ran my hand across the nearest seat. Compared to the throne-like chair in the middle it was basically a stool, but the quality was still excellent, "You think they'd notice if I...borrowed that big one? I'm sure I could make room for it at home."

"Only if you knocked through a wall," Thera said, and sniffed, "It's hideous, anyway."

"You think? Let me guess; you're more of a minimalist."

"I'm actually more of a 'not allowed to have an opinion'," he said, with a rueful grin, "Although I suppose that with a couple of cushions, maybe a throw…you could make it work, I guess."

"See?" I said, and nudged him with my elbow, "Now you're thinking!"

"Well, let's sit down and think about our next move," he said, "And stop gawking at that monstrosity; I'm not helping you get it out the door."

With that he brushed past me and headed towards the sideboard. I scowled at his back, and then my eyes fell on a painting, hung on the back wall in an ornate frame. It was illuminated from above by two spotlights, and displayed a portrait of a young man who, at first glance, was a dead ringer for Keame. There were subtle differences, though; his smile was sharper, more predatory, and even the artist couldn't hide the cold, dead look in his eyes. They bored into me from across the room, and I shivered despite the warmth.

"That's a picture of Simon, right?" I said. There was a subtle flash of light from the sideboard, and then a metallic ping. A moment later, Thera's voice floated across the room.

"Guess so. Horrible, isn't it?" He said, "I mean, who hangs a picture of themselves in their inner chamber? Even Stark'd only do that ironically."

"Hah," I said, "You think it's an oil painting? I don't think I've ever seen one outside a museum."

Something clinked, "You still haven't; that's a print on glossy paper. Vi'd have a fit if she ever saw it- oh, hello..."

He stood back up, holding a couple of bottles in one hand and a pair of glasses in the other.

"Check this out!" he said, and held one of the bottles out for my inspection, "Fifty-two year old single malt? Sounds tasty, don't you think?"

"Tasty?" I choked, "Do you have any idea how much that's worth?"

"You say that like I have any idea how much anything's worth around here," he pointed out, "Still, I guess that explains why there was that big lock on the front. Oh well..."

"You're going to drink that?" I said, "Now?"

"Hey, the poor thing's been waiting fifty-two years to be drunk! It'd be cruel to make it wait any longer."

"You…" I stared at him, desperately looking for some sign that he was joking, "You can't be serious. Right?"

"Look, mate, Pexley told me to make myself at home, so that's what I'm going to do!" he said, and I winced as he waved around a bottle of booze worth several thousand, if not more, "And fine, he might have followed that up with one of those 'I'm gonna throw you in the shark tank' laughs, but since he offered…"

"Oh, right, I get it," I said, as realisation dawned, "You're trying to annoy him, aren't you?"

Thera's eyebrows went up, "Now why would you think that?"

"Because I know you," I said, "But what I don't get is why."

"I promise you, there's a method to my madness," he said, and then his expression turned serious, "We need to talk, Laura. Quickly, before they come back."

"'They'? You mean Pexley?"

"Maybe. That's one of the things we need to talk about."

With a sigh, I took one of the seats immediately next to the throne. Thera joined me, and I watched with some annoyance as he sat down cross-legged on the massive chair, drawing his boots up the side of the leather with an annoying, drawn-out squeak.

"Christ, Thera!" I snapped, "Were you born in a barn?"

"Wrong on both counts," he said, with a faint smile, "But hey, if you find it irritating-"

"I do! Shoes on furniture is wrong!"

"Off to a good start, then," he said. With a practised hand he popped the cork on the whiskey and poured a generous helping of amber liquid into the two glasses. He paused for a moment, inspecting the two with a critical eye, and then muttered 'should be enough' and set the bottle down, still open, on the armrest of the throne.

"So... how're you now?" he said, a bit hesitantly, "Are you sure you're feeling okay? You seem to be taking all of this very well."

"I…" I thought about this for a moment, "You're right. I should be freaking out, shouldn't I?"

"Not necessarily. Everyone's different," he said, "From what I've seen, you seem to be pretty good at keeping your head in a crisis, and Vi said you handled yourself well at the warehouse and the Blip Centre."

"Really? C'mon! She did all the work; I was basically dead weight!"

"You're underselling yourself, mate," he said, "You might not be a commando or an Empowered supersoldier, but you're definitely not dead weight. Maybe-"

"Maybe Clint's rubbing off on me?"

"There's an image I could've done without. I was going to say that maybe you're naturally resilient, or..." He trailed off, and his gaze returned to the spot just above his right arm.

"Or what?" I said, "What, Thera?"

"Tell me, Laura," he said, suddenly all business, "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Um…" I hesitated, "I blacked out just before Pexley hit me."

"So you don't remember what Vi did, then?"

"She shouted my name, I think. Is that right?"

"Yeah, but after that."

"Um…" I thought for a moment, and then shook my head, "No. Nothing."

"A bit of memory loss, then. Not surprising," he nodded, "Well, Vi stepped in before Pexley could hit you that last time. Damn near broke his hand, actually."

"Really, but Poppy-"

"Was the only thing that saved his life. Believe me, she was this close to killing him on the spot," Thera said, "Of course, that led to a bit of an impasse, and…"

"And what?"

"...then the police helicopters turned up. Everyone cleared out, of course; Clint and Vi vanished, Keame got bundled off home, and I walked you to Pexley's truck, if you can believe that."

"'Course I can. I saw you walking Bulgakov to that ambulance," I pointed out, "But was I really still conscious at that point?"

"Sort of. You kept giggling about Clint and his, um, 'commando leathers'.

"Oh, Christ."

"Nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone knows your type."

"That's great," I could feel my cheeks prickling in the dark, "Can we move on? Please tell me I passed out quickly."

"Actually; I put you under. It's a lot easier to treat someone when they're not waxing lyrical about their romantic escapades."

"Like with Clint?"

Once again there was that brief, anxious pause, and then Thera nodded, "Yeah. Pexley let me help you on the condition that I fixed up his hand, and I've spent the last three hours alternating between dealing with you and listening to him talk on the phone to prospective... buyers, shall we say."

"Any takers? Who's the lucky soul who gets to torture us to death?"

"Well, ah, about that," Thera smiled a nasty little smile, "It turns out Pexley might've miscalculated. Just a little."

"Why?"
"Simply put, nobody wants us."

"What?" I said, and to my surprise I actually felt a little offended, "Aren't we worth anything?"

"Not to the syndicates," he said, "Ronin would've been worth her weight in gold, but nobody wants to touch us with a ten-foot barge pole. They know what'll happen to them if they do."

"She'll destroy them?"

"From the top down," he said, "And that's what scares them so much. Most vigilantes just kinda skirmish with the rank-and-file, but Ronin? Always targeted the people at the top, no matter how well guarded they were or how well they hid. She wasn't kidding when she said the crimelords feared Ronin more than the Avengers."

"So unless he's got her, he's got nothing."

"Worse than nothing. Now she's been revealed, they're scared she's going to do as much damage as she can before the police take her down, and if he kills me then that basically becomes a certainty. Most of them were all but screaming at him to let us go, in the hopes that'd satisfy her."

"But he's not going to, is he."

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Because he wants revenge for Simon, or at the very least the power and influence he lost when Simon died," said Thera, "We're also the only way he can delay Ronin while he tries to get enough money to go to ground."

"-but without the crime lords, where's he going to- oh, right," I nodded, as realisation dawned, "Keame?"

"Bingo. If I had to guess, I'd say he's trying to put together either enough men or blackmail material to make Keame hand over everything he needs. He'll need time, though; I can't imagine there's many people who'd want to stick with Pexley after their buddies got targeted by both Ronin and Hawkeye. It's one of the reasons why he hasn't left any guards."

"One of them?"

"Well, he probably also thinks it won't do any good," said Thera, "After all, he knows that something happened at the warehouse. He doesn't know what, exactly, but he does know he lost thirty men and we're still here. He can't afford to lose any more."

"But that's good!" I said, "If he's in trouble-"

"Then he'll get desperate, and desperate people do stupid things. Stupid things like killing Keame," Thera said, "And if he kills Keame…"

"It's game over for the Missouri List. Christ!" I said. That glass of nondescript alcohol suddenly looked very tempting, "And we can't do anything about it, because of Poppy."

"We can't do anything about it... yet," Thera said, "But thanks to you, Mrs. Spanner-in-the-works, we're still in with a chance. If we can hold out long enough for your friends to find her, then we'll be able to take action. Maybe we'll even be in time to save Keame."

"That's a lot of 'chance's, 'if's, and 'maybe's, y'know."

"Yeah, and that's not the worst bit," he said, "There's something else I really need to talk to you about."

"Oh yeah?" I said, a bit warily, "And what's that?"

Thera took a deep breath, visibly steeled himself - and then a door at the back swung open with a groan of hinges. I heard several pairs of footsteps enter the room, and shrunk back into my chair as my anxiety blossomed into full-blown fear.

"Damnit. It'll have to wait," Thera murmured, and gently pried the glass from my unresisting hand, "Quick note about torturers; they're weak, sadistic bastards who don't give a damn whether or not they get any useful information out of their victims - which is good, because they don't. They're in it to hurt people, Understood?"

I nodded mutely.

"Good, because most of them get a real kick out of hurting women, so please be as meek and inoffensive as you can, okay? Don't do or say anything that might piss them off. Leave that to me, and we'll be fine."

The footsteps drew nearer, moving with a slow, deliberate pace, and I gripped the suddenly-slick armrests of my chair with cold, clammy hands as my heart pounded in my chest. This was it, wasn't it? I was actually going to be tortured to death in a dark, smoky room, far from my family, and...and…

"We have a plan, right? We need to have a plan!" said my inner voice. This time, even it sounded frazzled, "There's got to be something better than Thera's 'sit there and take it'! Think, Laura! Think!"

Suddenly, a shadowy figure appeared in front of the chair and hauled me upright. I shrieked and struggled uselessly for just a moment, and then froze as something cold, hard, and metallic came to rest on the base of my skull. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Thera being yanked upright by another heavyset man, and as our gazes met he mouthed 'it's going to be fine!' before his captor jammed a heavy pistol against his temple. When he spoke, it was with a deep, gravelly voice that sent ominous shivers down my spine.

"Move and you're dead!" He said, "I'm serious!"

"Goddess, really? I hope not," Thera said, in a flat, tone, "Because it'd be simply awful if you killed me before you could torture me to death. Yeah, that'd be terrible."

There was a brief pause, and then with a resounding crack the man struck Thera, hard, on the cheek with the butt of his pistol. I winced in sympathy, and felt the memory of Pexley's hammer blows as a dull ache in my jaw.

"Oh, I know your sort," he snarled, "Sitting here in Keame's chair, drinking his best stuff. You think you're really clever, don't you?"

"Cleverer than you," Thera said blandly, giving no impression that he'd even been hit, "You do know that's not how a pistol works, right? You see that little trigger under the barrel? Next time, try that."

"Oh, so you think you're clever and funny?"

Thera considered this for a moment, and then said, "Well, 'think' implies an element of doubt, so-"

The sound of the man hitting Thera reverberated around the room, loud enough that I swore I could feel it in my teeth. Was this really his plan? Surely not!

"Would you stop that?" Thera said acidly, "You're going to make me spill these drinks."

"Keep it up, funnyman. I can do this all day."

"I'm sure you can. You don't seem smart enough to get bored."

"I-" the man drew back the gun for another furious blow, but a black-gloved hand came out of the darkness and touched him lightly on the arm.

"Enough, Hughes!" said the owner of the hand, in a dry, dusty voice, "We have talked about this. Put away your weapons, both of you!"

"Sorry, sir," said Hughes. He carefully replaced his weapon in its holster, and then I felt the cold steel lift away from the back of my neck. Despite the momentary relief I remained absolutely stock still, barely daring to breathe.

"That's better," said the newcomer, as he stepped under one of the spotlights. He was a tall, aging man, with thinning hair and a long, dour face. On the ridge of his nose was perched a pair of thin-rimmed glasses, to which were attached a curious range of lenses and magnifying glasses. His long, clean-pressed Howie coat glowed ethereally in the light, and in one black-gloved hand he carried a small red briefcase, locked tight with bright gold clasps. He looked at me, just for an instant, and a chill ran down my spine.

"Wow," Thera said, after regarding him for a moment, "Nobody said we were getting a dentist! Great timing; for some reason this imbecile here keeps hitting me in the face, although-" he leaned in and whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, "-he's not very good at it."

"Hmm. Let me see…" the man reached out and gripped Thera's chin with his free hand, turning it this way and that in the light, "Pexley said your name was 'Thera', correct? It seems I have been hearing that name a lot, recently."

"Well, then hopefully you've also heard that I brush twice a day, every day. Two seconds per surface, like they said, and I use floss and mouthwash. Haven't had so much as a single cavity. Want to see?"

"Not yet," the man's chuckle was more like a dry hiss, "We shall have plenty of time for that later."

"I'm not sure about that," said Thera, "'Cause Pexley...y'know, total arsehole, kidnaps children? Yeah, he said he was sending a torturer along, so you'll probably want to clear out before he arrives."

"Now now, please do not insult my intelligence," the man said patiently, and stepped back, "You know exactly who I am, no?"

"You're Miller, right? The torturer?"

"Indeed," said Miller, "Although I prefer the term 'interrogator'."

"So you're a torturer and a dentist?" Thera said, "I suppose that makes sense; there's a lot of transferable skills. Not to stereotype dentists, but which one did you get into first?"

Miller sighed, "I do hope you realise all this bluster will get you nowhere. Do you have any idea how many patients I have attended to, over the years?"

"'Patients'?" Thera said quietly, and the spotlights hummed and flickered menacingly, "Mate, I have patients. You have victims."

"Patients, victims? It matters not. Hundreds, Thera. I have seen hundreds, and I remember them all," he said, almost dreamily, "Some of them begged for mercy; offered me money, power, anything. Others just cursed and swore. Then there were the families...I always made them watch, you know."

"The children?"

"The parents," Miller smiled beatifically, "Their screams were always the most musical, especially when I cut the skin from their-"

A pair of spotlights exploded spectacularly, showering the room with sparks, and in the brief darkness that followed Vi's drawing floated before my eyes. Five small, sad packages, hanging from Eads bridge, while the police looked on in horrified fascination. If it hadn't been for Thera and Vi...would that have been my fate? Watching helplessly while-

"No, don't go there!" said my little voice, "Don't ever go there! This is why Nat sent them."

"Interesting," Miller looked at the broken spotlights, "Pexley did mention that you may be an...enhanced individual. Are you lashing out because you know I am beyond harm?"

"Nothing to do with me, mate. Must be a power surge," Thera looked genuinely surprised, "And why would I lash out? If I had to sit through Caleb's boorish nonsense, I can live with yours."

"Ah, yes. He was one of mine," Miller said, "Tell me, what happened to him?"

"Oh, he's gone."

"Dead?"

"Gone," Thera repeated, "Incidentally, were you the one who taught him how to sing like a canary? Because he did."

"No, but it doesn't surprise me," he sighed a dusty sigh, "He had some talent, that boy, but he was a thug. He had no appreciation for the art."

"The art? Oh, Goddess…"

"That's what we used to exhibit here, Thera. Art, in its most raw, primal form," Miller ran his hand dreamily along the crest of Simon's throne, apparently lost in his memories, "The young master was an avid patron, and those fortunate enough to be invited would come from far and wide to observe while we sculpted flesh into new, glorious forms. Sometimes the exhibitions would last hours…"

"You're talking about live vivisection, aren't you," Thera said, disgustedly.

"Not always. Others would perform plays, or put on demonstrations of martial prowess. There was only one requirement; everything had to be real, the consequences had to be real, and executed with the most exquisite attention to detail. Here, we were free to pursue...avenues that others refused even to consider," he turned, and pinned Thera with a long, hard look, "When your beloved struck down the young master, she murdered one of the most courageous benefactors of the arts this world has ever seen. That philistine act cannot go... unpunished."

"So...is this pretentious twaddle part of the torture?" Thera said, "Just curious."

Miller sighed piously, "It is true what they say; there are none so blind as those who will not see. Clearly, for you to understand philosophy, you must experience it for yourself. Hughes, if you would?"

With a growl, Hughes dropped Thera and headed towards the back of the room, vanishing into the gloom. There was a soft sound of wood sliding against wood, a very faint click, and then the plain black wall before me seemed to dissolve before my eyes, revealing another room beyond.

"Electrochromic glass, right?" Thera said, and whistled appreciatively, "That must've cost a pretty..."
Thera's voice faded away as my heart pounded in my ears. Miller's chilling reminiscence had set the scene, to an extent, but the idea that somewhere like this could even exist in Missouri made my stomach churn.

"This must be the real Playground," said my inner voice, "Christ almighty."

I had to agree. It was a large room, clad in cold, worn concrete, and lit from above by powerful fluorescent tubes. They flooded the room which chased away the shadows and threw the glinting metal of a hundred horrific implements into sharp relief. They lined the walls; scalpels, hammers, brands and scourges, hanging from pegs and brackets and arranged according to some arcane system. In one corner, there stood a tall white cabinet, unremarkable save for the chemical warning symbols stuck prominently to the door. What were they keeping in there? My blood ran cold just thinking about it.

The worst bit, however, was the chair. At first glance, it seemed to be an ordinary dentist's chair, albeit one partially wrapped in polythene sheeting, but no ordinary dentist's chair had thick leather restraints, and no ordinary chair sat above a bloodstained steel griddle. It radiated a powerful sense of pain and misery, as if the screams of Miller's victims had somehow soaked into the upholstery itself. How many there'd been, I had no idea, but I was sure they'd all died in terrible agony.

"You know what, Laura?" Thera said, in a slightly strained voice, "I'm beginning to suspect that Simon Keame might've had a few issues. One or two. Nothing worth mentioning, really."

I nodded mutely, not daring myself to speak.

Thera turned to give Miller a cold stare, "So this is where the magic happens, is it? All your plays, fights, and...art?"

"It was," Miller said, pointedly.

"It's big; how'd you keep it hidden?"

"The clientele was exclusive; only those with power and influence would be invited, and only then if they shared a similar philosophy. My patients were drawn from...the other end of society."

"People nobody'd miss, right? Yeah, I know that tune," Thera sighed, and gave the chair another once over, "Still, at least you had them put down fresh sheeting. Nothing worse than being tortured on an unhygienic surface."

"All art starts with a blank canvas."

"Is that so? Goddess, I never thought I'd see the day when I met an artisanal torturer," Thera clapped his hands together, "So, how'd you want me? Fully clothed? Stripped to the waist? Stark bollock naked? I won't say no to baby oil-"

"What makes you think you will be my first patient?" Miller's milky eyes passed over me, and once again I felt a chill that settled deep into my bones, "Why not Laura?"

"Well-"

"Your bluster and bravado has a clear goal; irritating me into choosing you," Miller said, "And you have asked Laura to keep quiet in the hopes that I won't notice her. A transparent move."

"Huh," Thera looked a little irritated, and then shrugged, "In fairness, I probably wouldn't have done anything different."

"But the effort itself, knowing that you are facing certain death at my hands, is quite telling," Miller smiled, "In my experience, the fastest way to break someone like you is to force you to watch. Commander Pexley would like that."

"I mean, that's probably true," Thera said, and ran his fingers across his hat, "But let's be honest; you're still going to pick me."

"Oh, yes? Why?"

"Because we both know this is the last 'exhibition' that's ever going to be shown at the Playground," Thera said, "Ronin and Hawkeye'll be here soon, possibly within the hour, and believe me when I say there's no army big enough to stop them from burning the whole damn place to the ground. You've been set up, mate; sacrificed to give Pexley that little bit of extra time to get away with the goods."

"Mmm."

"But here's the thing; I don't think you really care about that. I don't know what you've been doing since Vi turned Simon into sausagemeat, but I can tell that this place was your life, wasn't it? It's one of the few places someone like you actually belonged, and you're prepared to go down with the ship as long as you get one last shot at your particular form of glory - and for that, you need a patient that fits the bill. Laura doesn't."

I raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Don't get me wrong," he said, with a quick, apologetic look, "She's great, but do you really think that a middle-aged shut-in with a history of social anxiety and a touch of agoraphobia is the best candidate for your last hurrah? We both know that she'll pass out the instant you get her on that chair, and your last great 'work of art' will amount to you carving up an unconscious woman. I don't know about you, but that seems like a pretty pitiful end to an otherwise…" he grimaced, "...scintillating career."

"And you think you would be better?"

Thera was silent for a moment, and then drew himself up to his full height.

"Look into my eyes, mate," he said, quite calmly, "Go on; look really deep. I'm not afraid of you. I spent twenty years of my life being terrified of someone just like you, but you know what? I'm here, and he's not. You can cut me, beat me, burn me, even connect my nethers to a mid-sized power plant, but you're never going to break me. He couldn't."

"No?"

"No."

Miller stared at him for a long time, rubbing his chin, and then said, "Interesting. You genuinely appear to believe that you can overcome through sheer willpower alone. What happens if I say 'no'."

"Oh, that one's easy," Thera smiled, too sweetly, "I skip the pleasantries and burn this place to the ground myself. Sorry, but my Goddess takes a really dim view of torture and torturers."

"Ah-" Miller's hand dove into a white pocket and re-emerged holding a small yellow radio, which he handed to Thera, "-but I fear you are forgetting someone."

Thera looked at the radio, and then back at Miller, "What, Poppy? I haven't forgotten about Poppy."

"So you know if you harm me-"

"-oh, I'll hate myself, forever," said Thera, quite honestly, "But my Goddess is veryclear on the matter; I can't turn a blind eye to torture, no matter what."

"Even to save a young girl?"

"My hands are tied - but hey, feel free to test my faith," Thera's eyes narrowed dangerously, "I bet She can't wait to meet you."

The air hummed dangerously as their gazes locked, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end. After a moment that lasted just slightly too long, Miller snorted and took the radio out of Thera's grasp.

"Very well," he said, with a dry chuckle, "On two conditions. One, you are not to use any...enhancements, and two-"

He placed the red briefcase down on the nearest chair, and flipped open the catches. Inside were three antique syringes, their silvery wings shining brightly in the spotlight. With great care, he picked one up, held it upright, and gently depressed the plunger until a clear liquid spurted from the needle.

"What's in there?" Thera said, with what sounded like genuine curiosity, "I'm guessing it's not painkillers."

"Sometimes I do use opioids to...manage my patients during an exhibition," said Miller, "But as you are a special request, I have produced a cocktail just for you. Sodium thiopental, naloxone, a hyperanalgesic...I'm sure you understand the implications."

"I can guess," Thera said, and proffered his shoulder, "Do you want to do it, or shall I-"

Without another word, Miller stepped up and jabbed the needle hard into Thera's arm, and I looked away as he hissed in pain. When I looked back, Thera was rubbing his shoulder and looking ruefully at the torturer.

"Bloody hell, mate!" he complained, "Your technique needs some work!"

"I shall go and prepare the stage. When I call for you, you will come," Miller said, and took the radio from Thera's hand, "Warren! Take this and patch it into the speaker system. I want my patients to be under no illusions as to the consequences if they fail to play by the rules."

Miller turned, swiftly, and walked to the far side of the room. He pushed on a section of wall, seemingly indistinguishable from the rest, and light spilled into the smokey auditorium as it swung back on well-oiled hinges. He immediately busied himself about the chair, taking down and inspecting various terrible implements with a practiced eye. Those that met his approval went on a small metal tray, while the others were replaced carefully, almost reverentially back on the wall.

There was a sudden thud from beside me, and I turned sharply to see that Thera had flopped down onto the throne. While he gave me a brave look it was clear he was struggling; his breathing was unsteady, rasping, and his skin had already acquired an unhealthy sheen. Whatever was in that cocktail, it clearly worked fast.

"Hey, hey," I said, and steadied him as best I could, "Are you okay?"

"Never better. This'll pass in a sec," he said, and smiled with what was clearly a considerable effort, "Sorry 'bout what I said before. I didn't mean it."

"Yeah, you did, but...it's true," I admitted, "If you put me on that chair, I probably would pass out."

"You won't," he said firmly, "I'll see to that."

"By letting him torture you until someone saves Poppy? That's a terrible plan!"

"It's about the only one we've got."

"He's a monster! He'll tear you to pieces!"

"I don't think so," Thera said, "In fact, it's because he's a monster that I'm sure he won't. Remember what he said about his 'exhibitions' lasting hours? He doesn't get off on killing people; he gets off on hurting them."

"So he'll tear you to pieces...slowly?" I sat back, scratching irritably at my arm, "How is that any better?"

"Let's be honest; it's not," he said, "But Miller's not the only one here with prior experience. He might think he's in control, but let's see what happens when I spike his wheel a little. After all-" he gave me a wry look, "-I can be very, very annoying when I set my mind to it."

The earsplitting whine of electrical feedback suddenly filled the air, emanating from hidden speakers embedded in the walls and chairs. When it finally died away, the quiet whimpers of a young girl filled the air. Thera's amused look vanished, and I saw his eyes mist up under the spotlights.

"Is that Poppy?" I already knew the answer, but his sad nod still tore at my heart, "Thera-"

"-she'll be fine, Laura," he said, and smiled, "Thanks to you."

On the other side of the glass, Miller looked up at the noise, and then turned his gaze back towards us. With a knowing look, he leaned across the chair and pressed a button on the armrest.

"I trust you are enjoying the background ambience," he said, "Let it serve as a reminder as to what will happen should you defy me. A symphony of screaming, for hour, after hour, after hour-"

His voice vanished under a sudden sheet of static as the speakers crackled and whined, and once again the overhead spotlights flickered in a distinctly ominous fashion.

"Would your Goddess forgive me if I tore him limb from limb?" I growled, surprising myself with my own ferocity, "Because right now, I really want to tear him limb from limb."

"Don't worry," Thera said, "I have something far more satisfying in mind."

"Good, because-"

"I am ready for you, Thera," Miller's voice echoed through the speakers, and there was a definite note of excitement in his otherwise dry, dusty tones, "Please...come take your place on the plinth. Laura? You shall play the part of Simon, so make yourself at home. I insist."

"Well, here we go," Thera took a long, deep breath, and his expression became set, "Let's see who breaks first, shall we?"