A/N: I've been looking forward to posting this chapter for some time. It's the pinnacle of oddity.
Ch. 19
What it Takes
John was now reliant on Bren for shirts. His own was a lost cause.
Sheppard was in a crouch with elbows on his knees and hands running back and forth through his hair.
Think think think think think think you moron! There was a muted desperation thickening the air around them, and yet they had all the time in the world. Bren had taken to wandering haphazardly throughout the room as his own form of wracking his brain. Bart had gone to fetch them breakfast. Krissa was still rooted to the same spot when Bart had given them the bad news that residence was permanent.
Whether today, tomorrow, or in a month, they needed to get out. Time wouldn't have felt like such a back-stabber, except that John was set on keeping the sil from becoming a part of the auction or whatever plan Diavante had in store for it.
John raised his head enough to see Krissa. She still hadn't moved, as though someone had hit pause on her only. Guilt drilled a hole through John's chest. Circumstances were beyond anyones control, but guilt didn't give that much regard. John's presence alone, his sudden appearance into Krissa's life, was enough for John to start considering how much of all this was his fault. Perhaps, had he not shown up at all, Krissa would be none the wiser as to what was going on, and could have remained under Diavante's care in youthful, ignorant bliss.
Get real, John. She's not an idiot. She'd find out eventually. It did nothing to satisfy the guilt. She would have found out, but ignorance would have bought her a little extra time with peace.
Then when Diavante didn't have any use for her...?
He could have had use for her until she died of old age.
Think Savine would have let that happen?
Diavante has Savine on a leash.
You sure?
Too much to speculate on. It was all 'what ifs' anyways. And what it all came down to were the screams of warning in John's head, and his now conditioned nature to listen to them.
John lowered his head to stare at his own shadow. This wasn't going to be another Mather's ordeal. He'd listen, he swore to listen, on his life. This time he'd do it right. This time, he'd be the one to throw himself at the claws.
He felt a cool hand on his back, and snapped his head up and around. Krissa was standing beside him, and her soul deep concern was bringing her to tears. She quickly wiped them away.
" You feel warm. And you're shaking. And Bart's right, you can't take them. They'll kill you." She spoke fast, forcing the words out before they became lodged in her throat permanently. " I won't finish the sil. That should buy us more time to come up with a plan..."
John shook his head. " It might make things worse. Besides, Diavante's a dream reader. Whatever we plan, he'll find out and stop us."
Well, there was one reason why time felt like the enemy. Anything they planned needed a quick execution while Diavante was still clueless. Unless he was listening in on them now, wearing an ethereal form, moving with the air, even allowing himself to be breathed into the lungs...
That's freakin' sick! But probably not impossible. It was paranoia with good reason.
" I don't want him to have the sil," Krissa said with finality. " I don't want it ending up in the wrong hands. I don't want to be a part of his staff. This place is... is evil."
John nodded his assent.
But," she said, " if I have to stay – just a little longer..."
Krissa crouched down beside John, and when she spoke, it was in an urgent whisper. " John. You're sick. Not getting sick, you are sick. It's an illness common to our world. It incubates slowly, but soon you'll start having difficulty breathing. I'm willing to stay, just until you get better. You can be treated here. If we were to leave, it would have to be now before the virus affects your lungs, or you will die."
John wanted to pound his own body for all the grief it was giving him.
The door of the parlor opened, and Bart backed in balancing a tray with a bowl of fruit, plate of bread, jar, mugs, and a tea-pot. He set the tray on the nearest stand and proceeded to pour a hot yellow liquid into each of the cups. One cup he spooned a glob of what looked to be violet honey from the jar, and stirred. This one he brought to John.
John eyed it with increasing dislike. " What the crap was that you put in there?"
" Milwood sap," Krissa explained. " I asked Bart to. It'll help with what you have, trust me."
John, rocking back into a sitting position on the floor, took the mug. It didn't smell half bad, like chamomile tea. He smirked.
" Maybe I should just cough on Savine and her pals. Slow them down with what I got." He took a sip. It was sweet, like real honey.
" It's not easy to catch," Krissa said. "I think you got it because of all your cuts, and your lack of good sleep."
" Besides," said Bart. " Savine and her men would be over the virus within days, three at the most. A quirk of the serum is the quick regenerative nature – an unforeseen but favorable side effect from using Diavante's bio-structure."
John choked and sputtered on the drink, coughing half of it back out. " Whoa, whoa, whoa," he croaked. " They can heal themselves?"
" Not heal themselves, simply heal quickly. It's not always one hundred percent, as can be seen with Mr. Vice who had had his ankle injured. But injuries that might have taken weeks or months take days. Diseases especially so."
John scrambled to his feet with tea sloshing over the rim of his mug and onto his hand. He barely noticed the scalding heat. " Then that's it. That's what we can do."
Krissa took the mug from him, passing it off to Bart, and took John's hand to check the reddening area. " What, what's it? and hold still!"
John crouched to be face to face with Krissa. " The serum. I can take the serum..."
Krissa dropped John's hand and slowly began to back away, her eyes round, her head shaking. Bren stopped his pacing and gave John a look of horrified incredulity. Bart just lifted its brow.
" What?" John said. " One injection, one time. Bart says this stuff wears off. It wouldn't be permanent. I'd be able to take down Savine and her goons."
Krissa stopped moving, yet went on shaking her head. " No. John, no, you can't. You can't do that. It would be like... be like... becoming Savine. You'd be like her."
John shook his head vehemently. " No, no I wouldn't, because I'm not like Savine. Bart, you said this serum maps the form according to personality, right?"
Bart nodded.
" And I'm not a power hungry loon, Krissa. You want to get out of here...?"
" Not in that way!"
" Krissa, it may be our only way. Maybe not now but eventually. And, if you want to know the truth, I want to go home too. I don't want to stay here any more, and not any longer than we have to. When opportunity knocks, you take it. We have an opportunity, I say we take it. Or at least give it a try. Whatever happens, at least I'll have the means to protect you."
Krissa looked ready to burst into tears. " John, no. It's unnatural."
" But not forever." He moved over to Krissa, knelt in front of her, and took her by both shoulders. " Listen, if we were to do this, I could buy you time to get away. You take those prairie vrat you talked about, and the sil. You wait – say five minutes – give me time to get Savine's attention, to get her and the goons to start hunting me. Then you take off. I keep them busy, and you ride like hell to the edge of the shield. In a form like what Savine and the others have, I'd have a better chance of taking them down. I wouldn't even go by tooth and claw and whatever, I'd be armed. I'll take them out, then catch up to you. I mean I can't take you with me if I'm not there to take you, right? But I need to be able to fight back, which means having to do whatever it takes... and if whatever it takes means temporarily mutating myself, then I'll mutate myself."
Krissa's breath caught in a sob. She kept shaking her head, but all words had become stuck.
Bren's thick hand set on Krissa's shoulder. She looked up at him, and he handed over the pad.
" Bren agrees with you," Krissa said in a hitched voice. " He says he talked to Bart about the serum, and believes your plan could work. He says we should do it, because we shouldn't be here anymore. It's too dangerous."
She handed him back the pad, looking up into his wrinkled face. " You're that sure?"
Bren nodded.
Krissa released a shuddering breath. " If we have to," she looked at John in sorrowful defeat, " then we have to."
SGASGASGASGA
Sparks strobed light off of Krissa's face, spilling from the tiny welder like a shower of stars. " Almost done," she announced.
John was pacing caged-tiger manner before the door. The excitement of his plan had been short lived, and he was left scared stupid. He clenched his fists, rubbed his hands together, ran his fingers through his hair forwards, backwards, then down his face. Sitting still – sitting at all – was out of the question, and second thought ran rampant as a twister through his mind.
What was he doing? He'd survived one potential transformation and – apparently – hadn't learned any freakin' lesson from it. To do it again, and voluntarily, had to be saying something negative concerning his psyche. Desperation hitting an all time low. But John had had his fair share of necessary evils, so what was one more in the long run?
Permanent physical/mental damage? Possibly. Bart, however, was quite confident that wouldn't be the case. He seemed to trust in the serum, and seeing as how he'd been around for its creation, John trusted that Bart knew what it was talking about.
" Done!"
John jumped at Krissa's shrill announcement. The girl had the sil raised in both hands for a last minute perusal. John moved over to her and joined in the scrutiny. On one control panel was a tiny screen, the other a key pad.
" There are four codes," Krissa explained. " One for identification, one to activate, one to deactivate, and one to emit a pulse that counters any other sil being used." She placed the cylindrical tube in the foam padded interior of another, smaller holding case, and snapped the lid shut. " I've written down the codes, but in alternate order." She took three slips of paper from her dress pocket and handed one to John and the other to Bren. " The first is deactivation, the second the pulse, the third activation, and the fourth identification. I know it's silly, but I also know we won't have time to memorize, and I wanted to play it safe."
John looked over the numbers several times, then stuffed the paper in the pocket of his pants. Memorization was never an issue for him. Important numbers tended to fuse themselves to his brain.
Krissa turned to John and stared up at him. " Are you sure about this?" Her sorrowful worry was tearing John's heart to shreds.
" No," he admitted with a slight waver. He forced his mouth to turn up in a weak grin. " But I'm willing."
The door groaned open and all three turned to see Bart's entrance. The genetic hob-goblin had a case in one claw, and set it and a keycard on the table, clicking the latches of the case open.
" Any trouble?" John asked, eyes glued to the silver case. Bart opened it, and pulled out three viles and three syringes.
So administration was going to be done the hard way. Thankfully, numerous infirmary visits had toughened John's skin.
" No," Bart said. " Which is quite disconcerting. Savine's absence in her lab means that she is going after another. And seeing as how the two remaining candidates are in their own lab, it must be that Mr. Lorel," Bart looked at John. " Another of Diavante's specially chosen, part of his bio staff. He has apparently, finally, managed to obtain a small portion of Savine's research notes. She's been suspecting it, but never found the proof... until now. And she normally has little concern over the possibility of one of my brethren breaking into her lab. We've never had reason to."
" Sure you won't get in trouble for this?" John asked.
Bart sniffed. " No. As long as I return the card to my brother 332, she will most likely blame one of you three for the theft."
John snorted. " Oh that's a lovely reassurance."
" But I believe it is what you want? For Savine to go after you?"
" Me, just me."
" That's what I meant." Bart filled all three syringes; one with a clear liquid, another with a yellow, the final with black – three step mixtures to doomsday. John swallowed against a tight throat and chest.
With the syringes filled, Bart turned to the present company. " We are going to need room."
The tables weren't light, but they slid easily enough at the price of a scuffed up floor. Everything was pushed or carried to the walls, leaving a massive empty space in the center of the room where John now stood.
Bart stood five feet away holding the case with the three syringes in it.
" The order goes as follows," he explained. " The clear is to be injected into the spine..."
John winced.
" The second, the heart for quick dispersal."
John cringed.
" That black, any vein will do."
Not so bad, but John was still cringing over the one to go in the heart.
" And it's best not to be standing," Bart went on. " Side effects include dizziness, nausea, rapid heartbeat, and muscle aches."
" So in other words, the flu," John said.
Bart just sniffed.
John inhaled deep as he could, stopping at the point just before pain erupted. His exhale was an unsteady shuddering, as though even his lungs were trembling. He knelt to the cold floor, then unbuttoned the shirt and shrugged it off, letting it crumple to the floor, then followed up with the chest bandage. Bren picked up the first syringe and placed himself standing behind Sheppard. Krissa stood before him, clutching her hands together until they were bone white.
John was well aware his present appearance wasn't helping her state of mind. Skinny, pale, cringing, shivering, pathetically fragile seeming mess of a human being multicolored by bruises and scabs. That kind of appearance tended to dampen all hope. Add to that his slipping toward ill health, and he wouldn't fault Krissa for wondering how the hell this man was going to protect her.
He was also well aware that she saw his fear, because he couldn't hide it, hard as he tried. He should have taken the time to puke, because he wanted to, and his heart was a hammer cracking through his ribs.
Krissa blinked rapidly to fight the tears, but they still fell. " You don't have to do this..." her voice broke off, and she gulped.
" I want to," John kindly replied. " I always do what it takes. Just ask my friends when you meet them. They'll tell you."
The clamped hands shook, then suddenly pulled apart for Krissa to rush forward and embrace John around the chest, firm, but loose enough not to cause pain. Her head was against his shoulder, hot tears dripping onto his skin.
" Thank you. Thank you so much..." she wept. " You don't have to..."
John wrapped his own arms around her. " Sorry kid. Yes I do."
He then pulled her away. " Let's do this before I change my mind."
Krissa, still sobbing, took several reluctant steps back. Bren clasped John's shoulder, stepping to the side to give him a reassuring nod. John nodded back. He bent forward, curving his back and spreading his vertebrae. He rested his head against his arms and clutched his hair.
" Do it fast... but carefully!"
He felt Bren's hand on his shoulder blade. Then he felt the pinch, and the pain. It probably took no more than five seconds – in, inject, out. The radiating burn crawling up and down his backbone turned it into fifteen minutes of hell. He whimpered, then groaned, then growled a scream through clenched teeth. His hands shook, and had he pulled his arms away would have taken some of his hair with it.
But the pain passed. John seethed with tears tracing heat down his face. Where as he was shivering before, he was all out shaking now, and still felt lingering spots of heat along his back.
Bren moved to the front, exchanging one syringe for the next. He placed one hand on John's shoulder above the collar bone and helped the younger man straighten. John gulped in several breaths and tilted his head back so he wouldn't have to watch.
Please don't let this crap give me a heart attack.
" This is gonna suck so bad," he moaned, and closed his eyes. He flinched at Bren's probing the chest for the space between the ribs. Following that was the pinch, and John held his breath to keep his chest from altering the needle's course.
Less pain, one with the needle being smaller, and two with the serum feeling cold rather than like acid. It spread through his pounding heart, then into the veins, and dispersion diminished it until the cold was gone. When the needle was removed, John released his held breath.
John coughed out a wan laugh. " Not too bad."
Bren took the final needle, and John's arm. He plunged the business end into the vein at the crook. Definitely the lesser of all three of the little demon elixirs. No pain, no anything say for the usual pinch.
It was done. John could officially call himself a member of the league of monsters. Except that nothing was happening.
John looked to Bart. " Now what?"
" Now, you wait."
" How will I know when it's taken effect? Crap load of agony, changing without realizing, what?"
Bart shrugged. " I don't know. Definitely not pain. Savine showed know signs of pain when she first took the formula."
Some of the tension left John's strained muscles. " Finally some good news. So... I guess... we get ready to go."
Krissa, wiping her eyes, and less rigid now that John's body hadn't exploded with pain and scales, moved forward. " When?"
She sounded hopeful, and John was glad to see it still remained.
" Tonight, while Savine and her buddies are busy." John looked at Bart. " Sure you don't want to come with us?"
Bart snapped the lid of the case shut. " My place is here, Mr. Sheppard."
" But Diavante..."
" Will not know. He may speak to me in my sleep... but I do not dream. My kind has a very disciplined mind." The genetic goblin smiled a very creepy smirk, making John glad to have gotten on its good side from the start.
" My part in your plight is done, Mr. Sheppard," Bart went on. " And I wish you good tidings for whatever happens next."
John, rising, took one the the creature's claws and shook it. " Glad to have known you, then."
" Likewise, Mr. Sheppard. Likewise."
SGASGASGASGA
They packed by throwing what they could into two single gunny sacks, then hightailing it from the room, down the stairs, through the night-drenched corridors, dining hall, and kitchens to stop at the side door leading to the stable paddock. All the while, Sheppard led the way, feeling hide nor hair of the side effects Bart had mentioned. But that was the deal concerning side affects – they didn't affect everyone.
Their breathing was harsh and octaves too loud in the perfect silence. Midnight, always a good time to be out and about. With the majority of the world down for the night, that same world belonged souly to the few creeping about the darkness. Silence was once again a friend, betraying all else to them alone.
John pressed his ear to the thick wood of the door, not too thick to keep out the mutant howling were it shredding the air. Satisfied by more silence, John turned to his companions.
" All right, sounds good so far. Remember, keep to the shadows when moving to the stalls. Have the vrats saddled and ready, wait ten minutes, and guide them – guide them, not ride – out the stables and into the woods. You see anything, don't move, head back to the stables if you can, or go deeper into the woods. Don't let them catch you in the open."
Bren and Krissa nodded, Bren stern, Krissa scared but resolved, clutching the sil's case to her chest.
" Be careful, Mr. Sheppard," was Krissa's quaking response.
John gave her his best crooked smile. " See you when daylight comes," he said as his farewell. With a quick adjustment to the makeshift strap of his weapon, John turned to the door, hauled it open, and slipped out crouching within the shadow of the mansion. He brought the P-90 around with the light kept off. He assumed – hoped – that this super serum would kick in at the first sign of danger, pull a Hulk, and have him in creature form before he was pounced.
John kept in a crouch as he followed the wall to the first stable where the prairie vrat were kept – bigger than a regular vrat and darker colored according to Krissa. He could hear the animals' restless snorts and gutteral grunts. They were hot and bothered, but not terrified. No dangers here, but dangers somewhere.
He checked all the same, sliding through the door with animal musk hitting his sense of smell like an aluminum bat. The things stank, more so than usual. John risked clicking on the light for a quick pass, making several vrats and hairy horses start and snort.
" Can it," John murmured. He slid back out of the stable, and flashed his light three times toward the door, then moved on to the next stable.
Overhead, thunder rumbled and vibrated the air. Water scented heavy in the rising wind. There was a a flickering flash that lit the sky in electric blue, and created spastic shadows on the ground. The cracking thunder followed five Mississipi's later. John entered the second stable and flashed his light into the darkened stalls and corners. More grunts of protest. John patted the nearest vrat's neck.
" You'd tell me if the bad guys were here, right?"
The vrat clacked its jaw and snorted.
Another flash, brighter, longer, with thunder that could have split rock three Mississippis after. Two seconds later, the deluge came as though someone had ripped the clouds open. The rain fell in solid, glittering sheets, rattling off the roof and being spat out by gutters. John sighed heavily. He was already cold. Being drenched would send him into hypothermia. John's muscles began to ache in dreaded anticipation.
Ache. A symptom? Gosh, John hoped so. He attempted willing the form to happen, wishing it, cajoling it, picturing what he hoped he looked like – were-wolf, naturally, since that was all he could think of. Although it probably wasn't a good idea to do it in the stable. He stepped out into the deluge, soaked before he could blink, and shivering as expected. He looked over at the high paddock wall that wasn't going to prove an easy climb now that it was wet. He headed across the paddock to the gate, kicking up sprays of water. The curtains of rain and darkness had blinded John, and only the jagged flashes of lightning revealed anything.
The gate was locked.
Gee, John, didn't see that coming? Still, he gripped the thing by one of the bars and rattled it, half hoping with some measure of pleading that super strength came before the change.
Come on you stupid serum, work! Work! Work! Damnit work! John dropped his forehead against the arctic metal of the bar. Second thought was laughing at him.
Told you so. Perhaps they needed to wait, let the serum absorb into his system better, try again tomorrow. John would go back to the stable, get Bren and Krissa, try again...
A howl sounded distantly. Not close enough to panic about, but present so plenty to worry over. John closed his eyes. His chest itched on the inside – lovely. They couldn't wait, not if the serum was taking its sweet time and the virus kicked in hard and vicious in the meantime. Now or never, now or never...
You stubborn SOB, come on! We have to leave now! Krissa can't stay here. Atlantis may be in trouble. Just change!
John's heart pounded in rising fury that heated his skin. Then it pounded faster, so fast he had to pant just to keep the oxygen rate up with the blood. He lowered his hand to his chest, pressed it over his heart, felt the throb slapping his palm. The only time his heart pounded like that...
Was never. It was going too fast. He couldn't breathe.
John lurched drunkenly away from the gate with his legs going to jelly. He stumbled, wavered, and finally fell to his back, chest heaving, sucking in more air than his broken ribs and suddenly small lungs could handle. Fear wrapped itself around his throat, squeezing. He didn't understand... something was happening... sickness? He was scared, so scared. It was a fear that consumed him, forced him to curl onto his side in a ball, ignoring all else say for the childish mental whimper...
I want to go home.
But there was no pain, only a shift in his surroundings. The dark wasn't so dark, the animal musk reached him through the downpour from across the paddock, patting rain came out sounding like hail hitting a tin roof. John shrank from it, but it wasn't like he could shrink away from his own senses.
What happened next stunned him to the soul, silencing voice and body. He stilled, and felt himself become... another self. Like ice melting into water under a summer sun, his familiar form melted, and the change manifest into a mental image in his brain. Bones lengthening, face elongating into a snout, scales sprouting across his skin. He writhed in uncertainty, pawing at the muddy ground with curling hands and extending claws. Moans turned into grunts, whimpers into hisses. Arm-length spines slid from him along the backbone, and two longer from above the shoulder blades. Ridged horns, fleshy whiskers along the jaw, and a single whisker, long and supple, extending from beneath both eyes all the way past his shoulders – same length as the horns. He pushed himself onto four long, steady limbs, stumbled, fell, and pushed himself upright once more.
It was freakin' insane. John's awareness of himself was minimized to basic needs and goals; protect, maintain, hunt, kill. No room for contemplation concerning the new self. No time. He smelled scents through the moisture beyond animal and human – a combination of both. His tongue snaked out to taste the air, and the scent became tangible. His first act – protect. He turned to the solid gate and reared up on hind legs, clutching the bars in his claws and yanking in a shriek of metal until the gate tore from the wall. He tossed it aside to let it splash on the saturated ground.
He hissed, and crouched like a slinking cat coming up behind the bird. He made for the wall with a smooth, sliding grace as though he were more a limbless snake than four legged whatever. Rain beat on his back to go sliding down glass-smooth, tightly knit scales gray and black in color. John could see the rain through the darkness. Everything was far sharper, like a black and white photo only hinting toward prismatic.
He ripped off his boots with his mouth before he hunched back on his haunches and leaped with the same cat-like grace onto the wall. He perched there, assessing his surroundings, going for the best course. His uninhibited gaze fell to the high, gabled roofs of the mansion.
Birds eye view – perfect. John grinned. He adjusted his P-90 to ride his back, and slunk over the wall to where it joined the structure. Once there, he dug his curved claws into the stone, and climbed gecko-like up and up until he slipped over the roof.
King of the upper places. Very perfect.
TBC...
SGASGASGA
A/N: Surprised? Alarmed? Disturbed? If you would like to see John in all his creature glory (well, mostly just his head) then just go to my home page and look for the title "Secondary conversion" in "Deviant Gallery". Should be just right there where you can see it. Click " Secondary Conversion" and low and behold John as a critter other than a bug. I just couldn't resist doing a visual. Critters are my specialty.
