Sleeping was hands down the worst part of his situation. Forget how badly his muscles ached from standing in one position for countless hours, or the meals of moldy bread he was forced to eat to sustain himself, or even the simple fact that he couldn't control his body in any meaningful way.
It was sleep that bothered him most about being under this damned curse. In honesty, a significant chunk of that was his own fault. Back when they'd been new to controlling his mind, he'd managed to break free of those mental bonds. He'd given a good accounting of himself too, before being turned back into a zombie. He didn't kill anyone, but there were several broken bones mending thanks to his efforts.
He missed that muddled feeling of the typical Imperius curse. Things had been foggy but the orders and suggestions had been more or less pleasant, even if he knew they were wrong in the back of his mind.
Now, he could control nothing about himself. It was like watching a 3D movie from the perspective of the hero, only there was nothing heroic about watching himself shovel hunks of mold into his mouth at mealtime.
He couldn't control his rest cycles either. The Death Eaters very seldom ordered his husk to sleep, and so he would become exhausted to the point that he fell asleep doing whatever he was being told to. That part wasn't so awful, it was the waking up somewhere different, in the middle of doing something that really bothered him. He was on autopilot all day, every day, and even in sleep he didn't really rest, the rest of him was up and doing something.
Now, like so many other times, he woke with a sense of confusion and panic. He was standing in a dimly lit room and in front of him, the most hideous creature he'd ever laid eyes on. He'd seen Lord Voldemort a few times before, but never so close.
The mutant had a disgusted look on his face as he inspected Mike, those nasal slots flaring open and shut as he breathed. Beside him, a tall and nearly beautiful woman stood, with shining black hair in an untamed appearance that reminded him, briefly, of Hermione.
The comparison was fleeting, as he'd never known Hermione to have such a cruel, crazed look in her eye. The vestiges of feminine beauty were still present on this woman, but it was obvious that she'd been, at minimum, malnourished for a very long time. Her collar bones and jaw cut angularly through her pale skin and if he didn't know any better, he'd think her sickly. It was just the look of someone who had spent years in the wizarding prison.
"It's a shame to just kill it outright," she said, pouting her lower lip out in a manner that might have, at one point, been attractive.
Voldemort appeared unperturbed by her comment, not hesitating in the slightest to raise his wand to Mike's chest. He really wished he'd been awake a little earlier, to know what exactly had happened. He longed to close his eyes and picture Hermione once more, but his eyes instead stared ahead. No level of effort on his part would change it, he knew from experience.
A soft knock on the door interrupted Voldemort as he opened his mouth to utter the spell. More accurately, the door opening just after the knock interrupted the Dark Lord. He whirled around to face the newcomer, who stood just out of sight somewhere to the left.
"Sorry to interrupt, master," a Southern accent drawled into the room. It was strange hearing an American accent here and a little glimmer of hope sparked in his chest. Faint, because he knew the chances of an intel agent slipping into the ranks of the Death Eaters would be slim, and his recovery would be a low priority compared to maintaining cover and gathering intelligence, but he felt that spark nonetheless. Mike could hear the rustling of fabric as someone stepped inside.
"And yet you do," Voldemort hissed.
"I apologize for bursting in, but I was hoping to reach you in time," the man said, his voice edging closer and closer to Mike's left side. "I wanted a chance to plea my case before you terminated our prisoner, here." He felt a hand plant on his shoulder and in his mind, the reflex was instant. He was twisting his captors arm out of its socket, ready to plant a boot into their throat as they hit the ground. Instead, he stood obediently still and listened.
"Is that so?" Voldemort said, a bemused smile creeping up one side of his slitted face. It made Mike's skin want to crawl.
"It is indeed, master. I think I could put this fella here to much better use than fertilizer for the garden." He paused to chuckle at his own joke, though neither of his companions seemed to find it amusing. The woman arched a thin eyebrow, as though surprised that the man was comfortable enough to joke with Voldemort, and Mike had to admit, he found it a surprise as well. The guy just looked like someone you didn't fuck with.
"I think, after this length of time, his information might be a little outdated," he continued from just out of sight, "but I'm certain he could provide a great deal of insight into the workings of that American group working so hard to out you to the Ministry."
"The Ministry ordered them to leave, did they not?" the woman asked, cocking her head to the side as though begging him to defy her.
"Indeed they did," the American concurred, "but, would it not be prudent to learn about them anyway? Just in case? They are, after all, a persistent bunch. I would, of course, assume full responsibility for keeping him out of your sight for as long as you would allow me to use him."
Voldemort didn't respond and Mike found himself yearning for a few moments ago with that wand pointed to his chest. No way did he want to be pumped for info on Task Force Ansible, or Hogwarts, or Harry...or anyone else. Just fucking kill me, you ugly piece of shit. He tried to force the mental thoughts into Voldemort's mind.
"If he's alive, maybe we can use him to get at some of the others out there," the woman said, and Mike saw a menacing burn in her eyes that sank his heart.
"If I see or hear it, I'll kill the both of you," Voldemort spat after a long pause. "Tell me what you learn." With that, he left the three of them standing there.
"Hmm," the American grunted from beside him before stepping into view. He remained facing away from Mike, toward the woman. "Brains and beauty. You are quite a package Miss Lestrange."
He watched her pale cheeks flush a bit at the compliment, though the look on her face remained impassive. The American didn't linger on her, instead turning to face Mike for the first time. He hadn't thought it possible, but his heart sank further. Not an intelligence agent.
"You and I have a lot to talk about," he said with a smirk and an insulting pat on the cheek. It was Howard Fucking Eden, the very man they'd trekked across half of Africa hunting.
Colonel Sumner sat still, staring at his computer monitor and waiting. A little part of him, the more juvenile special operator part, wanted to be doing something, anything. His fingers ached for something as simple as drumming his fingers on the desk as he waited, but he refused to give in to the temptation.
He'd received a tip from one of his buddies, a former operator now riding a desk at Fort Bragg after an IED attack, that he should check out the updated personnel manifest for FOB Phoenix. He did, and saw that his name was no longer at the top of the list, replaced instead by a Colonel Byrd.
It was irregular, to say the least. The situation in England was dire, for certain, but he hadn't thought it bad enough that he needed to be worried about being replaced. Getting yanked from a command while deployed was always bad news.
Ping. His computer monitor chimed, drawing him from his thoughts. He answered and wasn't surprised to see General Thomas on the screen.
"Colonel," the general greeted, his face grave. He had bags under his eyes that Sumner could relate to.
"General," Sumner replied, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Colonel, we've got a bit of a situation," General Thomas said, sucking on his teeth for a moment before continuing. "The folks around here are worried about the status there, and frankly I'm inclined to agree with them."
The general paused, giving Sumner a chance to reply, but the colonel remained quiet.
"The fact of the matter is, if we are successful in stopping this Voldemort character, that still leaves a significant power vacuum in England. It's looking more and more like he is in control of the Ministry there and if we're going to continue this, we need a successor lined up and ready." The generals' words left Sumner confused. He'd been waiting to hear about failures and dismissal, not about the British Ministry of Magic's line of succession.
"The government over there has been corrupted throughout, and we really have no way of telling who is on what side. We need a strong leader over there that can get people through this, someone we know isn't a Death Eater."
"What does that have to do with me, sir?" Sumner asked after a pause, not tracking the general's line of thought.
"Colonel, everyone here agrees that we need Dumbledore to pick up the pieces. Without him in line, the fear is that we might make things worse," General Thomas sighed.
"That's all well and good, but he's not here, sir, and I have no way of contacting him." Sumner frowned, not sure what the General was getting at. The general should know as well as anyone that Dumbledore had managed to escape the Auror squad sent to arrest him.
"I've arranged for a witch from MACUSA to join you over there, and together the two of you are to find Dumbledore and convince him to take charge if or when we execute a regime change. We need someone in line. If Dumbledore isn't on board, we're pulling out entirely."
"Understood," Sumner replied. Colonel Byrd wasn't here to replace him, but to hold down the fort while he was off playing detective and diplomat.
It was going to be a tough sell. Professor McGonagall had mentioned to him once that Dumbledore steadfastly refused to run for Minister of Magic, and Sumner wasn't convinced he had a new argument to sway the ancient wizard.
Still, that was a problem for later. He still needed to find the old man first.
"Execute, execute, execute," Brad heard over the squad-comm, followed by the low whump of a door breaching charge detonating.
From his vantage point on the catwalks above, he could see each of the rooms in their modular kill house. He watched as the dozen members of First Squad filed into the front room, clearing it flawlessly. It was something else, watching as the handful of Aurors on the team filed in with the operators, firing curses and counter-curses in support of the assault.
"Clear," Brad heard from several different voices on the channel. The team didn't miss a beat at the sight of the two doors leading in different directions. It quickly broke into two, six-man fireteams and each rapidly stacked and assaulted a door.
The defending group, a team of Ministry volunteers, stood little chance, and the whole assault was complete in near record time.
Speed, surprise, and violence of action were the keys to a successful assault like this, and the 1st ETC was delivering it in spades. Violence of action was something that came easily to the special operators who were seasoned in just such violence, and their Aurors, affectionately called Warlocks, were quick learners. The few that had cause to complain about the rules of engagement, which differed from the police style work they were used to, had left long ago.
Surprise and speed were greatly enhanced by the presence of the Aurors, however, and it really was a sight to see. The Warlocks were adept in various forms of useful magic. They could cast spells that caused the team to produce no sound on approach, and several of them were skilled in casting a sort of area-of-effect invisibility charm that worked wonders.
Enhancing their ability to surprise the enemy wasn't where it ended, however. They were extremely skilled in magical combat and since they joined the 1st ETC, they'd spent a great deal of time perfecting counter-curses and protection spells.
During an attack, they could defend the team from incoming fire similar to how Aegis cruisers defend fleets from missile attacks. It left the operators able to move more rapidly and openly during an attack, and their stunning munitions were much harder to deflect by wand. The one-two punch of Warlocks defending the assault team from incoming fire and attacking operators laying rapid-fire waste to their adversaries made for an extremely talented and lethal fighting force, at least in small operations.
On top of this, their training resources had been spectacular. The French Ministry had managed to get a large number of volunteers together to act as the defenders during exercises. This was not unusual, in and of itself. What was unusual was that the experience levels were so widely varied and all of the volunteers were willing to act under the spell of short-term memory blockers.
It meant that they could much more accurately simulate different scenarios. They could actually perform surprise attacks and fight against wizards that were not expecting an attack, and thus see what reactions were common and what they should prepare for.
Probably the first lesson was that just prior to an assault, they needed to set up wards to prevent apparation. It was a common and easy route of escape for wizards and they'd lost a few early exercises to it before making that a standard practice.
They had also been able to simulate several mass casualty type events, complete with panicking civilians, which were of course played by the freshly graduated interns who had just been wiped of the memory that they were taking place in a training exercise.
Brad hoped the French were paying those poor bastards well, because he was putting them through the ringer. It was incredible training, though, and he hoped he'd be able to take some of the lessons learned back to his own team, if he was destined to be on it again. He wasn't going to quit worrying about that until he was back with them.
"All clear," the squad leader called over the radio. Brad watched as the unit started helping up the battered defenders, the Warlocks restoring their memories.
"Good work," Brad called over the com in accented, but passable French. Working so closely with French troops in their homeland had done wonders for his learning of a second language, though he didn't tout it much at home. "Take a few and then reset for Second Squad."
He looked at his watch. There was only enough time for one more exercise before they cleaned and stowed their gear for the day and headed home, or in the case of the french soldiers, to the barracks for down time. Perks of being an advisor, he thought with a smile.
Brad had found that he really looked forward to the end of the day. It meant a warm meal and spending the evening surrounded by the Delacours, which he had quickly grown accustomed to. He liked that familial feeling, everyone invested in each other in a way he was still very new to.
Nights were also really something now, and they brought a whole new dimension to the table. Since that first night, after the Worldwide Festival, Fleur had made it a habit to sneak to his room each night, sleeping there until the morning. They got up early every morning to exercise, and so were out of the room before anyone was up to notice.
Aside from how closely they slept, along with the obligatory and heavenly making out that tended to occur, they hadn't taken things any further. It wasn't something they'd discussed, they just seemed to naturally stop at making out. It didn't particularly bother him, being that this was all unchartered territory for him, but some nights he found his mind wandering. Plus, he still had a pretty healthy fear about Henri finding out, and wasn't convinced he'd survive the encounter. He'd never seen Henri in a fight, but the man had the air of someone who could take care of business.
Whump! The blast of a door charge, marking the beginning of Second Squad's attack, yanked thoughts of Fleur from his mind, and he forced himself to pay attention to the work again. He'd be done here and back with her soon.