Author's Note:
Warnings: Some violence & torture (nothing bloody).
Chapter Five:
It takes Nova the better part of four days doing nothing but rest before he can function. He's no longer swaying when he stands and his vision has cleared considerably. The wound is still there, red and raw, but the muscle that was flayed open appears to finally be making progress towards permanent healing. Loathe he is to admit it, Nebula appears to have been right in her assessment of his health. He spent a majority of the first two days asleep, and felt far less like a half-dead thing crawling its way from the grave afterwards.
Four days was one longer than Father wanted.
But Nova doesn't even know if he—no, he does care. He must. He has to please Thanos. He doesn't get the option of apathy. He never has. And why would he want to in the first place? What else is important beyond his father's wishes?
Despite his lazing, his father says nothing (doesn't even talk to him, but that is nothing new). Nova suspects this is the work of Nebula, but can't even gather enough energy together to be annoyed. He doesn't need a protector, he's on the Order because he is worthy of it, not to be coddled. Nebula thinks him weak. This is mockery, even if it is disguised as mercy.
When he can walk without swaying like a drunk, Nova exits his quarters and gathers the necessary supplies for the Witch. He doesn't even know where to begin on his study, but he has to make progress. He has only a fortnight to accomplish this. He just hopes that he has something by the time the two weeks have met their conclusion.
He gets portion packs, water, and wracks his brain for anything else humans may need. When he did his study before Terra, he was looking at their biology—but only because he needed to know how to kill them. He doesn't remember what the Witch will need to stay alive, but he does need to know. She's his responsibility now. He's not above asking when she'll need, he just wants to keep talking to a minimum, if it could be possible.
He blows out a frustrated sigh and turns, storming towards the prison levels. He doesn't want to listen to the Witch whine about the death of her lover. He doesn't want to talk with her. Or discover the source of her power. Or deal with this. He doesn't know what he wants.
Not this.
(Any of this.)
When he finally steps into the dark, dank prison depths, he allows himself to breathe out very slowly to collect himself. The dark isn't something he struggles to navigate through. It feels weirdly familiar, like a friend he's known since before birth. A strange sentiment for a child of Thanos. Friendship.
His footsteps, despite his best efforts, still manage to echo within the tight space among and the moans of prisoners and whispers of the mad. He ducks his head and casts a brief spell on his person so they'll pay no second thought to him.
He isn't like the rest of the Order in this regard. They seem to take great pride in how the prisoners scream for mercy, for death, for anything to release them. He doesn't. He can't. He's been on the inside of those cells, begging for much the same. It doesn't fill him with power to know how much they're suffering. It makes him sick.
That was me once.
Nova's ceaseless footsteps stop abruptly as he picks out a different noise among the prisoners and himself. It's voices. His brow knits together with confusion. It must be the middle of the night now and Nebula should be sleeping, not wandering the prison decks. Even with her enhancements, Father allowed her to keep that one small need. Although his sister often refers to it as "shutting down" now, as if she is more machine than a living creature.
But it isn't Nebula that makes him pause, it's who she's talking to.
His footsteps, not as silent as they could have been, alert Nebula of his presence quickly and he barely hears half of a clipped sentence "you have to keep—" before it stops abruptly, shut down. He blinks, not realizing he's holding his breath until he exhales sharply. He forces the thought to form because he's only going to drive himself insane if he denies it.
That sounded like Gamora.
Gamora, who left the Order, their father, left everything two years ago for a group of measly thieves. Why would Nebula, who pledged allegiance to their father and his quest once more, ever think to contact a traitor?
It doesn't make sense.
But that was Gamora. He's positive of that fact.
A gun whirs and Nova suddenly finds himself staring down the barrel of Nebula's familiar blaster. Her eyes have an odd shine in the faint lighting, but her stance relaxes somewhat on seeing him. "Oh." She says at length, pulling her hand back. She doesn't pocket the weapon, he notes, her body still tense like a coiled spring. "You. What are you doing down here?"
"Who were you talking to?" Nova counters, voice even. It's all he can do to stop himself from coughing. His throat is raw from it the last few days, as if admitting to himself that he wasn't quite well gave his entire body permission to give into sickness. The cough persists, even if the rest of him is...not hale, but okay.
"You should be laying down." Nebula says flatly. They're just going in a circle now. Evade, evade, evade.
"That sounded like Gamora." He says at length.
Nebula doesn't even blink. If her face shows discomfort, she hides it well enough when she slaps him. "How dare you suggest I would betray Thanos!" Nebula's tone is dark. "I swore my life to service to him. I came back. Do you really think I would commune with a filthy liar after all that?"
Yes.
But he doesn't say that. Instead he rubs his jaw with one hand, keeping his supplies clutched close to his stomach with the other. He watched them when Gamora was here. He knows that their relationship was poor, but it was as functional as it could be among the Order. Nebula, though she'd never admit it, desires connection. It's her biggest weakness.
(Is it not your own?)
Nova lifts his face to look at her. "That was Gamora."
No denial. The slightest twitch of her lip. Nova, for reasons he's never been able to determine, has always been exceptionally skilled at worming out mistruths. Thanos never taught them to lie, he needs honesty among the Order. Distrust among the soldiers crumbles an empire. But it doesn't matter if its in the Order or not, he always knows.
"And this is why you should be sleeping." Nebula sneers, trying to recover herself. "You're hallucinating voices. It's a wonder you haven't gotten yourself killed yet." She starts to storm past him, frustrated, and he twists to avoid her rampage and watches her move before calling out:
"I have to report treason, sister. To our father." Nebula stiffens, stopping in her tracks entirely. He feels a sick sort of pleasure wash through him at having caught her, but sick at realizing that he's caught her. Nebula is his only sort-of-ally among the Order. If she leaves, he has no one.
Nebula looks back at him. Her hand is still on her gun, finger curled around the trigger. If I shoot him now, will the consequences be long-lasting? Her thoughts broadcast across the small space. She's slipped, the control she had on her mental barriers falling and releasing everything into the wild. We need him alive, but I can't—The thought cuts off, hesitant. Don't let him die.
Nova's expression furrows. "Need him alive"? What is she talking about?
He'll report me. Thanos will know. I can't let him tear down everything—The thoughts cut off abruptly as Nebula gains ahold of herself. What he's heard has left him deeply unsettled and uncertain. Nebula has always been...if she had her frustrations with the life Thanos created for them all, he never heard them. Gamora was free with her opinions. It came as no big surprise to anyone but Father when she deserted. It was a bigger one when Nebula left shortly afterwards, too.
"Fine. You win," Nebula takes a step forward, hand releasing her weapon with what looks like effort. He resists the sudden, but very strong urge to back up. "It was Gamora. We still talk sometimes. She thinks she can pull me to the light." Nebula sneers the last word and rolls her eyes. "Save my soul, the works. Obviously, she's not having a lot of success."
"Father's looking for her." Great, he is backing up now, like some sort of uncertain prey. "He could trace the comm signal. Why haven't you told him?"
"Who says I didn't?" Nebula asks.
Your thoughts. You. You are an awful liar. He bites on his tongue.
"You were going to shoot me." Nova points out the obvious. "Because I know. If Father already knew, why would you have been worried about it?"
Nebula hesitates, and then sighs, her shoulders slumping. "Fine. I didn't tell him. But there's a small group of people not on the end of Father's wrath, and that's us," she gestures vaguely between them, but he knows she means the Order. "He'll keep us alive. I'd rather that Gamora wasn't out on the wrong end of Father's rage. Her betrayal stings, but she is still my sister."
His lip curls. "Sentiment."
Nebula's jaw tightens. "Not even I am above it."
You should be. We all should be. Attachments aren't allowed. Nebula glances at his supplies and then towards his face. "You should get to her. I have things to take care of."
Like treason? A part of him wants to sneer, but he keeps quiet. He knows better than to invoke her wrath. He knows better than to do a lot of things now. Part of him wonders what would happened if he pushed them over the edge. Would they finally kill him, or just leave him in enough pain that he'd wish he was dead?
They've done it before.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to do with this information, and that seems oddly fitting. Just another thing to add to the ever growing pile of things he can't handle.
000o000
He enters the Witch's cell and drops the few feet into the small space, landing with practiced ease. He hears the door click shut behind him and swallows the initial dread that eats at him. What if the door doesn't open, and he's left in here?
(Like before?)
He shakes away the treacherous thoughts. He must have full faith in Thanos. He isn't going to be trapped here. Not now.
He takes a look around the cell. His heightened vision allows him to see the space with clarity, and he forces out a steady breath when memories threaten to tumble from his subconscious and spill across his concentration. This isn't the first time he's been back in these cells since his release.
But the smell. Bodily fluids, salt, the acidic rot of the metal. The sound of the drain in the middle of the room, for blood and everything else, slowing slurping up something. His gaze lifts up to a broken pipe in the corner, leaking water at an unsteady rate. There's a puddle it's dripping into, but the floor is angled enough that it's created a small stream towards the drain. The drain that is stained with blood and rust. He can't help when his eyes lift to the dangling shackles above it, and his own wrists burn with familiarity.
The very metal beneath his boots seems to groan in displeasure. Everything within this room speaks of misery. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe for a moment to ground himself, but it doesn't help.
("Please, I can't move."
"You think that begging like a sniveling dog will grant you quarter?")
"What did you do with the body?" He startles at the accented voice, his head whipping away from the drain towards the far west of the room. Unlike the east which is wet and generally unpleasant, the left side appears to be the only part of this cell that is partially livable. It isn't wet, and appears to have been somewhat scrubbed down.
There, laying on her side facing him, is the Witch. Her hair is pulled away from her face in one of the worst braids he's ever seen. It's sloppy and twisted, as if she isn't aware how to do something so simple. Another problem might be the lack of ties. He doesn't know why this bothers him so much, only that it does, a quiet part of him insisting that he can do better, even if he has no memories of it.
She's still in the clothing he gave her before taking her to Thanos, and appears to be cold from how she's curled in on herself.
Her question registers with him and he pauses, "'The body'?" he repeats. He doesn't want to talk. He doesn't want it so deeply that his entire body aches as his tongue moves inside his mouth. His wrists ache, the smells of this cell messing with his perception of time.
Are you going to quiet now? The sick laughter of the Other when he opened his mouth and the only thing that bubbled out was blood. He remembers the humiliation. And the horror. And crying for a person whose identity he's forgotten.
Her eyes narrow. "Vision," there's a burning fire hidden beneath the defeat of her words, "the man that you killed a few days ago. Who else did you think I was talking about?"
Ah. He wars with himself a moment. "I am uncertain what became of it," he admits as quietly as he can. His words sound forced and stiff. "I imagine that Ebony took it for study."
She shifts, "You let him take—" she stops as her lips press together, and he sees her eyes fill with tears. He bites on his inner lip, uncomfortable in the face of such emotion. If she had been angry, that would have been familiar. Upset is a concept he doesn't really understand.
He forces out another breath and takes a step away from the door—the wall beneath it—towards the Witch. She stiffens, and her eyes flit widely towards him, but won't quite settle. A part of him is filled with a surge of pity for her. She can't see in the dark. To her, all of this is a blackness with no distinctions.
Maybe that would have been better. But he thinks of falling through the stars, and how everything had been black and nothingness, and quickly discards that notion.
He drops the supplies in front of her, the water canteen bouncing once. She flinches back from it, nearly ramming her head on the wall behind her. She's quiet a moment, obviously expecting him to explain, but when he doesn't, says, "I do not want your charity."
He nearly rolls his eyes.
"You misunderstand me then." He says and squats down in front of her prone form. "I'm not here because I want to see you survive this."
Her jaw tightens, her fist curling by her side. Her right hand, because her left is curled up next to her body, deformed. It looks no closer to healing than it did a few days previous. Shades of color are his one weakness in the dark, he mostly sees everything in grays and white. But comparing her two hands shows the obvious malformation of bones.
No one gave her medical treatment then.
As is expected.
"Then what are you here for?" the Witch demands sharply. She's tense.
The scar from the Power Stone burns on his head, and his magic rolls with disgust and despair. If only they had known about her before Thanos destroyed him. He breathes out slowly and then tilts his head, "You have been gifted with something truly rare to have become an extension of an Infinity Stone," he explains, "I am here to discover how it happened."
He doesn't tell her why. She doesn't need to know why. Something tells him that if she is to learn that his father is attempting to do the same thing to himself, she will withhold answers.
The Witch huffs. "You killed my beloved. The last thing I'm going to do is help you."
Yes, well, they all think that in the beginning, don't they? And then the pain begins, and so crumples any resistance.
"Hm." Nova voices. He pushes the canteen towards her, but she doesn't take it. "Your hand looks quite painful," he notes conversationally, "it would be unfortunate if something worse were to occur, wouldn't it?"
Using a bit of magic, but without moving a muscle, Nova reaches out for her hand and grabs at the nerves. He twists them enough that her broken fingers flex, and leaves it there long enough that she's aware it was him before letting go. The Witch's breath escapes her fast, and he sees her clutch the limb close to her stomach, wild eyes flitting up to him.
He senses her try to pick at the block again to reach her magic, but her fingernails are scraping against solid stone pointlessly. They can do this where she talks or he tears it from her head. He'd rather the latter was a last resort, but he will achieve what his father wants. No matter the cost, to her...or him.
"Drink." Nova says flatly. "All I'm going to do is ask you a few questions."
Maybe. He doesn't know. He doesn't know what he's doing. How to start, when to end.
The Witch looks doubtful, but sits up so he's no longer towering above her. "I told you that I won't help you. Vision will not have died in vain if I don't."
"You seem certain of that."
"I'm not going to talk with you." She says flatly. Firmly. Her dark eyes flash towards his face again, but land off-center. She's still tense and tight. "If you're going to kill me, just do it. Don't learn all my weaknesses first."
He nearly laughs. That's not how Thanos works. He rests his hands on his knees, breathing out carefully. "I haven't been given orders to kill you."
"What a relief." The Witch's voice is thick with sarcasm. "I am nothing more than a lab study, then?"
In a way, yes. She should be grateful, if she wasn't, she would be dead. The bitterness of her tone throws him slightly; it's as if she's already dealt with something similar before and the very idea of doing it again exhausts her. His eyebrows raise with surprise. Did the Terrans not understand what happened either and they studied her there? Was her connection to the Mind Stone an accident?
"You don't completely understand your powers yourself, do you?" he questions. His eyebrows raise with surprise. Did she not choose this path for herself? How can she not understand? "They didn't either. They studied you there."
The strangest sensation washes through him. Sympathy. To be set at variance for a gift that you didn't choose is something he understands all too well.
"I—" her mouth closes. She looks away, angry.
What questions does he begin with? Where does he start? How does he do this? He feels that he knows how, but when he touches at using the information, it shies away from him like it belongs to another person. A ghost.
"What can you do with your powers?" he asks. She keeps her lips pressed together, refusing to look at him. She doesn't answer.
"Do you hate it?" he questions at last. He bites on his tongue, frustrated. This is going to involve far more talking than he's used to.
Still nothing.
"Have you seen an increase of powers since your enhancement, or has it been much the same?"
Silence.
"Your lover carried it in his forehead. Is he at fault for it?"
She glares at him for that, which he takes as a small margin of success. No.
"Were you born with your gift?" he questions. I was. It's been my burden to bear since I was held for the first time. He doesn't know how he knows that. Only that he does. The Witch still does nothing, and his frustration sparks. He could have grabbed a knife and slashed her across the face, he's certain that Midnight would have done nothing less, but blood is messy.
(The last thing he wants is to smell fresh blood here, lingering with the scent of everything else that haunts him.)
Instead, he reaches out with his mind and taps against her thoughts. It's subtle enough—or she isn't paying enough attention—that he slips inside without too much restraint. He keeps his consciousness split between his body and her head, only listening.
"No," he tilts his head, letting dark hair falling onto his face, "no I don't think so, because something that was inherited would make sense to you. Who were your parents? Do you have any family?"
The question makes him ache, strangely, as if missing something. He shakes off the sensation. The Order is the only family that he has ever had, or will need.
Pietro.
It's the first distinct thought that he can make out. There's memories attached to it. Hiding beneath a small space—a bed—with arms wrapped around her stomach. She's sobbing, staring at a weapon seated in the rubble where a hand is sticking out from beneath the crushed rubble. Mamochka.
"Who is Pietro?" he questions.
Twins. Brother.
The word hurts, but Nova doesn't understand why.
"How did you get like this?"
"Stop," the Witch pushes back. She tries to resist, but he hears the echo of screaming in her head, and sees a memory where she's strapped to something like a chair as they dig the edge of a weapon into her skin. He recognizes that weapon. It is the scepter Father had crafted for the invasion to Terra. Her vision is flooding with light and then there's darkness. Hands wrapped around her shoulders.
That is Pietro. He knows this only because she does.
"Is he like you?"
The Witch flails. She grabs at her thoughts, but he still manages to catch the briefest memory of a blue blur before it's ripped away from him. So she'll protect this Pietro with a fury, but not herself? Strange.
"Where is he?"
The Witch physically shoves up to her knees, eyes dark. When she speaks, her voice is a dagger wielded with precision. "Get out of my head."
He feels the briefest flare of amusement. "Are you threatening me?"
"No. Warning you." She swings the water canteen at his head. He ducks backwards, falling onto his elbows hard with surprise. He didn't see her grab it, his focus split. He doubts that she could do any real harm to him with the metal bottle, but his body saw something coming and demanded he move away.
In between his shoulders spikes with discomfort, but not the stabbing pain it would have been a few days ago.
The Witch throws the bottle at him, and he catches it. Frustration spikes through him, but he forces it down, instead settling the container on the ground and getting up. She's scowling at him, hand fisted around one of the ration packs as if that's next.
He weighs his options before deciding it would probably be better to wait. He's not stupid enough to test these waters any more than he has to. He has a few days. He can do this. He'll come back tomorrow. He gets to his feet, and her eyes follow him, but poorly. Still blind in this lighting. He starts to move for the exit.
"I'm going to kill you." He stops and glances back at her. Her lower lip trembles. He thinks she's going to cry again. "You took everything from me. You're a monster."
Nova's lips part, words dry for a moment. His tongue feels heavy. "I know." He submits. He's not proud of it. The admittance seems to throw her, as if she was expecting him to deny it and rage against her. But something inside of him knows that this has always been his identity. He clenches his left fist and leaves without another word.
000o000
The next day doesn't go much better than the first. The Witch is stubborn, he will admit that, but that's not the problem. The problem is how little she knows. His questions lead them to no answers. Even with him touching at her thoughts.
They don't go in circles.
They go nowhere.
He will admit that the fault may be largely his because he doesn't fully understand what he's doing, but he thinks it would help if she had a small inkling of what he was trying to ask her. She's hopelessly naive about the entire thing.
But drawing up the memories yanks on one in particular, and Nova feels sick to his stomach because of it. A man is there and-Nova shakes of the thoughts sharply, stuffing it down, deep, because he's not allowed to explore this line of thinking. It draws up too many thoughts, and kriff, it hurts.
He leaves frustrated, and finds himself wandering the halls of the Sanctuary until realizing that he's hungry and determining that the doesn't think he's eaten since he and Midnight left Terra. Annoyed with himself, he turns on his heel and moves towards the cafeteria.
Thanos has demanded that they take care of themselves. Inadvertently starving himself is not following under those whims.
He scowls at anyone that attempts to look at him, grabs a bowl of some sort of sloppy mush and takes a seat at an empty table. The cafeteria isn't loud, only a few clicks and growls of the native tongues of Outrider captains. For the most part, the only noise is his thoughts and the scraping of his spoon against the side of the bowl.
The mush—whatever it is—does not appeal any more than eating the spoon does. It takes bland and dry, but the texture is wet and chewy. The two don't merge very well, leaving his stomach rolling and his mouth refusing any more.
It's sort of funny, because he remembers that before he joined the Order, the very concept of eating anything would have been enough. The texture or taste aside. Most of the time, he lives by that same principle, all too aware what happens when it's taken from him. But not today. Today his mind is elsewhere.
Wandering among an interrogation that he has no idea the point of.
Why can't he just conduct this magical study and then move on? Why does he feel like he's doing it wrong? How did the Stone give the Witch her power? How? She's a Terran, with no real sense of power. She's just some woman in the midst of billions on that world. Why would the Stone choose her?
He tries another bite of the mush and does not feel any more enthused about it than he did before.
Close to ten minutes later, Midnight drops down in front of him abruptly, flanked by Obsidian. The latter isn't much of a surprise to Nova. He's noticed that she tends to keep a heavy hitter with her. (Before it was Glaive, but that's no longer possible after Terra.)
"I heard that you're stuck dealing with the Witch." Midnight says, settling onto the bench like it's a throne. "Father put you on caretaker duty? Does he really trust your abilities so little?"
Any remaining appetite sours. He releases the spoon and looks up at her properly, settling his hands on the tabletop to stop himself from hitting her. She's tucked her blue hair up into some sort of sloppy bun that sharpens the features of her face. He might have even called her beautiful if it wasn't for the lingering scowl and haunted edge of her eyes. Instead, she looks tired.
Obsidian, as ever, looks angry. He always has since Glaive's death; before that he was blank until he was bloodthirsty.
Nova glances around the cafeteria for a brief moment, but sees no respite from the conversation. Realizing that unless he gets up and walks away he's stuck, he sighs and focuses back on his siblings. He doesn't want to talk.
"What do you want?" he questions. His voice is barely audible.
Obsidian's eyebrows raise. "You're talking today?" he questions snappily. "A rarity indeed. Look, sister," he nudges Midnight's shoulder, "we have stumbled upon a treasure."
He bites on his tongue, even as his face heats. He keeps his expression smooth, though, unwilling to let them know how much the taunt frustrates him. They're the ones that proved to him why he shouldn't speak, and now they laugh at him because of it?
Midnight scowls at Obsidian, scooting somewhat. She turns her attention back to him, tipping her head. There's something unreadable in her face. "How's your back?"
His hand clenches. "Your handiwork is as fine as ever." Nova says. (He wants to leave.) He doesn't ask why. He knows it's not out of concern. Midnight doesn't know what that is. Maybe I don't either. She's likely trying to mess with him. She's done it before. Her sense of humor is often wicked or sadistic.
Obsidian snorts. "Is that your backwards way of saying that she got you good?"
Nova looks up at his brother, wondering very briefly what would happen if he threw the bowl at Obsidian's head. Eventually he decides he'd get into more trouble than it would be worth, and his back is finally manageable again. He can't lose that so soon. Besides, causing drama between the Black Order is something that Father is never pleased about. They are supposed to be a functioning unit.
What a joke.
Nova gets to his feet. He can't let them break his patience. "Running off?" Midnight demands, lips tightening. "Not in a talking mood?"
Obsidian's mouth tugs at a smile. His eyes are still burning with furious embers.
"With you?" Nova looks between them, letting his face twist briefly with his displeasure. "No. I think not."
He flinches a little when Obsidian moves his hand, and knows by the way that is brother huffs that it was intentional. A threat.
"You should know," Midnight starts conversationally, rubbing a finger along the table, "that Father told us what you're doing." He freezes. There's something heavy in her stare, the weight of the scars they all bare from the Stones hidden inside her eyes. Inside of Obsidian's. "For your sake, I hope you succeed."
Because if he doesn't, there will be not just Thanos to answer to, but them as well. Succeeding means that the experiments are done. That all of them will be free of that burden, but failure...Thanos has the Mind Stone know. Perhaps he will try on them all again.
His magic burns inside his veins with fear. Because Nova is afraid. He is afraid of what Father will do to him now. He took the worst of it. His siblings had only one session, and they volunteered. He had six. He didn't agree to any of them.
Nova's hands clench around the bowl. His breath feels hot and sticky in his mouth, like he's breathing in air thicker than what's being filtered through the vents. His failure is not an option, but it almost feels as inevitable as all his others.
He doesn't say anything as he moves to deal with his bowl.
000o000
In the six days since he started, he hasn't seen Nebula since he learned about Gamora. Despite the impression that he left with her, he didn't tell Father anything. He hasn't seen his Father since he was given his assignment, which isn't anything out of the ordinary. Sometimes he can go as far as weeks without having any contact with him. But even though he doesn't see his sister, he sees the aftermath of her.
Midnight's sudden broken nose, the irritation of Ebony, the Outriders' silence. She's wound tight. When she's upset, she yells and punches. Nova's been on the end of it a few times before he joined the Order. Before she and Gamora ran off and only Nebula and the Power Stone came back. Something is bothering her, but what?
She seemed so insistent on getting Gamora to their side. Sentiment. If she's so concerned, Thanos must be moving faster. Or planning an attack on another world. But why would that concern Gamora?
It doesn't. That's the problem.
Nova knows she was lying, but he doesn't know what to do with the knowledge. Does he confront her, demand answers about the thoughts he overhead on accident? We need him alive. It was so certain so...strange. He and his siblings were made to be expendable. If one of them dies, there will be others to take their place eventually. It would be an honor to lay down their lives for Thanos.
So why would she care? And who is "we"?
Gamora isn't something he should be—
Fingers snap in front of his face and Nova snaps into attention, jerking upright. Back tight, head down, muscles stiff. His hand snatches out and catches the wrist of his attacker, squeezing. A woman gives a slight gasp, and he blinks as he tries to focus.
"So you're not dead." The Witch sounds disappointed. She probably is.
His teeth set. He forces himself to settle and his thoughts to stop running around. He's in an interrogation. He's...he can't remember anything that's happened since he got here. He can't remember when he slipped. How long he's been dazed. His mind is a mess. (He hates that Thanos did this to him. He hates it so much sometimes he thinks he'll suffocate on it.)
"Do that again and I'll take your wrist." He snarls. Her green-brown eyes widen the slightest bit, lips pressing together in her fear. She can hear the truth in his voice. Good.
He releases her forcefully and sees her rub at her arm idly, saying nothing.
His face aches. He tries to ignore the raw sting, but he bit his tongue with surprise and now his mouth tastes like blood. Blood, here, in the cell. Stop it. This is not The Cell, it's a cell. He breathes out, frustrated, and resists the urge to rub at his eyes. He can't remember what they were doing before she hit him. He only has vague memories of entering.
This isn't working.
In order to understand, he'd need to see it, and he can't do that without releasing the block, which he's in no hurry to do. He only has seven days left. He needs to pick up the pace. But pick it up doing what?
"You zone out a lot." The Witch says after nearly two minutes of complete silence. Her head tips, "Have you been hit in the head too many times?"
Something like that.
A flush of embarrassment washes through him. He didn't realize that it'd been happening enough that she'd notice. It's worse here, where his mind has something to go back to. All the memories he can't shake off.
("Nebula stop. Father wants him alive when this is through."
"Please...I can't...can't breathe.")
"You don't ask questions here." Nova reminds her stiffly. He still hates all this talking. In the six days since this started, he's asked so many questions that he's starting to lose track of what he has and hasn't. He forces himself to steady, list what he does know. Her magic was not intuitive, her brother, Pietro, received powers the same way, but they are not like hers. What they are, he doesn't know yet. He thinks speed or teleportation.
Filtering through her memories he's seen that she can read minds, manipulate thoughts, cause a type of drugged-state where she sees the fears of her victims, move things with her mind, and uses a type of red wisp as a weapon like a whip or a blaster. This, he's gained before she shoved him from her head.
An impressive feat, if not for the fact that he's letting her do so. Her push is impressive, and he knows that if she was able to access her power, she'd probably be a formidable enemy. But she's not, and still a child. He doesn't know how old he is, but something tells him that his experience with these arts tops her measly few easily.
"Yes." The Witch is nodding to herself. "You have problem."
She's in a good mood today. Normally she'll just sit and scowl at him with a glare that would be frightening if he hadn't seen Thanos angry. He blows out a long breath. His energy level is low today, he doesn't know if he can pull enough together to do another head swipe. He looks away from her pale face.
"Can you sense the presence of other people before they enter the room?" he questions. He might have already asked this question before, but he doesn't think so.
The Witch, as ever, stubbornly presses her lips together and tilts her face away from him.
He wants to scream. But that would be breaking protocol. He doesn't know why he keeps asking, expecting a verbal response. Maybe it's because he would never dare to withhold the answer from anyone.
But not everyone is like him.
He gives up. He gets to his feet and exits the cell without another word. He feels the Witch's surprised eyes on his back the entire way out.
000o000
He dreams that night. As of the late, his sleep has been an empty void of thoughts or feelings. It's a strange sensation. He doesn't think that it's a dream, more so than a memory to a man who died when Gamora found him six years ago. He doesn't know what triggered the memory, but he parses it all the same. Anything from who he used to be is a treasure to be kept hidden and quiet.
It's nothing significant. The dream—or memory—is merely him sitting at a table. The place he'd been looking out on was golden and bright. There was laughter flowing around the room, and the sound of a deep voice engaging everyone in the tale of a battle. He wasn't paying attention, scribbling down on a napkin words he intended to take for study. Thought vs. inner mind.
Without the context, the note makes little sense to him. His concentration had been broken when a dark-haired woman nudged him in the side and told him to pay attention. Her face was blurred beyond any recognition and he'd woken up as she'd been reprimanding him. He doesn't know what it means, but he doesn't really care. Sometimes the reassurance that he existed before this is...nice.
It shouldn't be.
He should be happy here. Among the Order, serving one of the most powerful beings in the universe.
But he can't help the ever pressing want for something else. Something that he had. Maybe someone. He hates that he can't shake the childish need from himself. Attachment is not allowed. It's not needed. He doesn't need to be happy. He just needs to serve.
He pulls himself together, gets up, and prepares for the day. He slides his knifes into place and glances back at his small room. Something knotted in his stomach tells him that he really shouldn't get used to the view for much longer. The implications of that make him feel sick.
All too soon he finds himself back with the Witch, rifling through her head.
The Witch hits the floor, hard, and sees a redheaded woman get off of her. The Witch's muscles are burning, an achy fire that makes the entire world seem a little less bright. "You're sloppy." The other woman says. "Did you learn how to fight in playground?"
The Witch feels humiliation tint her face. A voice, Pietro, Nova has come to learn, laughs to their left. "Close enough."
No. The thought is distinct, I learned how to fight in a Hydra facility when they handed us knives and told us to stay alive. She doesn't—
Nova moves on. This isn't what he's looking for. He taps at another memory, flooding her head with images of what he's searching for: Show me how they made you. His request works much like a beacon, sending other thoughts and memories forward. His body is trembling now, he can feel it. He's done too much with the damaged, wild thing inside of him.
The Power Stone left far more scars than any of them thought.
(How could Thanos have done this to him!?)
He hears the Witch's brother screaming. She's crying, on her knees and begging them to stop. She's restrained with cuffs on her wrists. There are men holding her arms and she's afraid—He pushes harder, searching around the memory. They're in a lab, the twin is restrained to a chair. His arm is split open, blood gushing everywhere as they tap against his nerves with the golden tip of the Mind Stone's staff.
They're holding paper and calmly talking to one another as the Witch and her brother fall apart in front of them.
He can see a screen the scientists are working on. He squints, struggling to read unfamiliar text, but managing well enough. Despite never having studied the alphabet before, it's familiar to him, along with some of their terms. Strange, because before a few weeks ago, he didn't even care about Terra's existence. They've listed electron vibrations, both of the Terran body cell and the scepter. Why would they be—?
The shove comes unexpectedly, and he's thrown from the Witch's mind and back into his body with a snap. His entire frame is buzzing, and the Witch is seething in front of him. She threw him from her head?
Not much of an achievement, considering this is you.
"Get out!" the Witch is furious and on her feet. "Get out of my head! I've told you again and again that you are not welcome there!"
He breathes out, reminding himself that he is captor here, not the prisoner. "If you wanted me to stop, you should have started answering verbally days ago." His voice is slick, but sharp. "I would have left your mind to be your own."
He resists the urge to vomit. Ebony promised the same thing to him. Nova started talking and it didn't save him.
She draws back slightly, but is clearly still angry. "You don't get to see that! You don't get to know that!"
"And yet, here I am."
The Witch's eyes flash.
"Perhaps your brother would be more cooperative. He's like you isn't he?" Neither one of them is the Mind Stone, he realizes then. The Terrans failed, just like Thanos has. Still, he can't stop the words as they tumble out of his mouth. "I should make arrangements to bring him here. Maybe he'd be more inclined to talking."
Rage unlike anything he's seen on her before splits across her features. It crackles in the air like electricity between them and the Witch makes a move for his throat. She doesn't touch him. He lifts up a hand and grabs the nerves of her broken fingers, yanking sharply to cause an outbreak of agony that drives her to her knees immediately.
A sharp scream is torn from her throat and she shakes her left hand, clutching at the wrist.
He stops, breathing out harsh and quick. He releases his fist and the pain stops just as quickly. She's gasping, trying not to cry and it doesn't make him feel powerful. He think he really will be sick now. But still, he is a child of Thanos. He has seen and caused worse things than a girl crying.
"You do not get to make demands here," he says carefully, slowly, "we are not allies."
A sob bubbles out of her lips. She's still gripping her swollen fingers and looks up at him through narrowed eyes. "I hate you." She whispers.
His jaw is beginning to ache from how tight it is. "That's probably for the best." He returns in a tone just as quiet.
"If you touch one hair on my brother, I will destroy you." Her voice is a low promise. Her eyes bear the weight of that statement.
She is useless. His mercy of saving her was pointless. The Mind Stone is not who she is. Thanos will use the Stones on them again. He hates this. He will have saved no one. She is going to die, because Thanos will see no point to her.
What is he supposed to do?
He tips his head. "There's nothing left to destroy. I wish you the best of luck with that." Oddly, his tone is bitter. He gets up. He leaves the sobbing woman alone, and barely keeps himself together.
He wanted something different than this.
000o000
Time slips away. One moment he's standing outside the Witch's cell and trying to keep himself together, the next Nova is outside the throne room to give his report to Thanos. The fortnight has come to a close. What he says in there will determine if the Mind Stone is used. If the Witch survives.
It's just a Terran girl.
He doesn't know why this matters so much.
Nova comes to a stop in front of the throne on one knee, head bowed. The position feels familiar to him, as though he's been doing it since he was born. Odd, since he hasn't actually been in Father's throne room too many times. Probably less than ten since he joined the Order.
"Nova, my son." Thanos says. He hears the slight sniff the Other makes, always at his Father's side. He resists the urge to clench his hands and keeps his head bowed. "I trust that you have accomplished your task? How fares Wanda?"
Strange to hear the name spoken from his lips so readily, when Nova himself has never said it. It makes him slightly uneasy for reasons he can't quite determine.
He bites at the inside of his lip. "She is alive, my lord." He murmurs.
"Is that the best you can say regarding her health?" Thanos sounds skeptical.
"No." Nova is quick to correct. "What else would you like to know?" Even if he doesn't know the answer, he can just make something up. But the very idea makes his tongue stiff and his throat taste like ash and blood. The Other's gaze bores down on him like a very heavy weight.
"Nothing." Thanos waves a dismissive hand. Nova only sees the shadow of it, eyes still pinned to the floor. "What I want to know is the result of your task. How were the Mind Stone and Wanda merged together?"
Nova hesitates. He almost wants to say I don't know than give the actual answer, but he forces it off his lips anyway. "The Terrans used a type of technology that measured the vibrations of electrons. They did so to the Mind Stone. When they had determined what it was, they leached it to the frequencies of her cells. Through her hands. The chemical build up her brain and the forefront of her psyche appear to have played an important role in determining what skills she got."
This is more talking than he normally does. Is he doing too much? Couldn't he condense this more? Why is he rambling?
"But…" he clears his throat. Don't sound uncertain. Uncertainty gets you killed. "But the Witch is not the Mind Stone reincarnate, Father. She is a child of it. All the skills the Mind Stone is and possesses...that is not what she was given."
The room is quiet.
Nova has the sudden, but terrible feeling that he's disappointed him somehow. Disappointment brings punishment.
"I see." Thanos says at length, "Nova, rise."
He does so unsteadily, his palms slick. His entire body feels stiff and unresponsive. If one of them lashes out, he won't be able to move fast enough out of the way. His eyes slide to the exit for the briefest moment as his mind flails around, trying to find an escape route.
Father's gaze pins him into place. "You're certain of this? That the Terrans did not clone the Stone within her?"
He nods wordlessly.
The Other is scowling at him, as if the Terran's failure is Nova's fault.
"She is useless then, and an empty mouth to feed." Father glances at the Other. "I suppose that there's really only one thing that can be done with her now. She'll be happy, of course. Joined with her lover once more."
Nova feels his face go white. An awful feeling settles in his stomach. This doesn't sit well with him, but he doesn't understand why. Father has always been the judge on whether or not someone was going to live. He's always been okay—never been okay—with...with that. Why does he care about a woman that he has only interrogated? Why her?
"How merciful." The Other purrs.
Thanos hums slightly and then turns to him. "Gather your siblings. We have an execution to attend. And you, my child, will have the honor of swinging the blade."
He tries to feel flattered.
But he only feels sick.
Author's Note: So. Um. Yeah. It's been a while. Sorry. This story...*sigh* this story. I love writing it, I really do, but I hit so many walls it's not even funny. I actually decided to shorten the amount of chapter space this entire sequence was supposed to take simply for the sake of GOING. I'm sorry. I want to keep going. I really do. I hope that I can push through my frustrations with it.
Probably don't expect rapid fire updates. ;D
Sorry. Again. Real life is a thing, and it kept pushing me over. Sometimes it takes me a while to get back up on my feet.
I love you all! Thank you for your support! It means the world to me! You're all amazing! =D
Next chapter: February 14th, 21st or sometime inbetween that.