A/N: My goodness, I've lived up to my name, haven't I? Leaving that last chapter hanging like that! Evil!

As always, I own nothing other than that which has fled in panic from the confines of my brain...


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Answers

Malcolm thrashes his way out of yet another nightmare, his subconscious coating him again in a multitude of scorpions. There is no need to reach for the lights; he no longer extinguishes them. Knife in hand, he crouches on the bed and stares about, searching for the creatures that must have followed him out of the dream - a conviction that he cannot seem to shake.

Nothing.

Shrinking back under the covers, he sets the knife down, and moans, faintly. He can't take much more of this; and yet, the pattern seems to be so utterly established that he can see no way out of it. If only Yseult were beside him - awake, holding him close and soothing his jangling nerves; but he lied to her - and that small, insignificant untruth has grown to such monstrous proportions in the depths of his conscience that he is absolutely certain that she would despise him for the telling of it.

What the hell is wrong with him? He's a capable, rational human being; a highly qualified scientist - and yet…in the midst of all that has happened to him, he has become a shuddering, nervous wreck that starts at his own shadow, and has all but rejected that which he values to the uttermost.

Dawn is breaking, and - yet again - he has failed to go back to sleep. The tiredness is bone deep, and yet still he can't persuade his racing mind to settle, and let him rest. Worse, what if there are more messages? Despite his absolute insistence that there is no such thing as a ghost, the dread that another message in blood awaits him has given him cause to wonder otherwise - and he is horribly afraid that somehow Lucas has circumvented his demise and is truly haunting the house. Where has his sense of rationality gone? God; he really is losing his mind…

Forcing himself to shower and dress, he emerges from the bedroom and looks about with wide, frightened eyes. Nothing looks out of place; but then, nothing did yesterday, or the day before - until that message appeared, and then vanished. He is still not entirely sure that he didn't imagine it.

Slowly, mechanically, he makes himself a coffee, and retires to the couch to drink it. Nothing so far - but he has gone to such lengths to lock himself in that perhaps even a ghostly revenant of Lucas Taylor can't reach him.

And then he sees it…his picture of Yseult. He has plenty on his plex, of course - but somehow it seems less personal than a proper, printed image in a frame. Her face has been cut out of it…

"Leave her out of this, Taylor!" he shouts out, looking all about as though he expects to see the bastard lurking in a corner, enjoying his torment. It's bad enough that Lucas is haunting his every move - but now the one he loves appears to be in the monster's sights. God no - how could he survive if she's in danger?

When she comes at lunchtime - he'll warn her…though whether she'll believe him is debatable; based on the evidence so far, he isn't entirely sure that he isn't going mad.

"Not her…" he whispers, almost in tears, "Leave her out of it…if it keeps her safe, then just do whatever you want to do to me - just not her."

The silence is not at all reassuring.


"What's for lunch today, Max?" Pete asks, cheerfully, leaning against the wall of the shelter and watching as she stands at the furnace to heat some iron to continue shaping for Geoff's power loom.

"I haven't decided yet." She says, concentrating on the metal at the end of her tongs, "Didn't Sal say she had some good steaks of gallusaur available today, Mike?"

"She sure did. If you take the last ones, then I may well have to kill you." He advises, facetiously, as he works the bellows, "One of them has my name on it."

"I'll bear that in mind." Pulling the searing metal from the furnace, she sets to work on the final shaping of the iron, carefully measuring as she goes. She might not have Mike's brawn - but there's no denying her mastery of metalworking. Within a matter of minutes, the piece is shaped to her liking, and she quenches it in a large trough.

"I'm done for the time being, Mike." She calls across, "How about putting the kettle on?"

He rolls his eyes, humorously, "Slavedriver." Still grinning, he turns and departs for the covered workshops where they maintain a small kitchen.

"How's Malcolm doing?" Pete's voice is more serious.

She looks up at him, "Barely hanging on, Pete. I can't get through to him; he obviously wants me with him - but it's as though he can cope with only so much, and no more. Somehow, even though he lets me leave after lunch, I know he doesn't want me to go. He's frightened of something: really frightened - but he can't, or won't, say what it is."

He sighs, "I take it sex is off the cards at the moment?"

"Since you put it so bluntly; yes." She admits, "I don't know what it is - he holds on to me like he used to when we first started dating; but he can't seem to do anything more intimate than that."

"It's not you, sweetie. Just remember that; okay? By the sound of it, he's having major problems at the moment - and I'm willing to bet it'll all come out in one big messy explosion. Then you can work on picking up the pieces. You just need to be ready, and keep on making sure he knows you care."

"Oh, there's no danger of me not caring, Pete. I'm being there as much as I can be, and when he's ready to reach out to me, I'll be ready."

He hugs her, "You're a good woman, Max - and, regardless of my pissing about and joking, he's a good man. Even a raddled old queen like me can see how much he loves you. Once he gets past this, it'll be better than ever. You'll see."

"I hope so. It was going so well before this happened, so if it's better, then I think I'll be practically in heaven."

"Yeurgh…that's just too sicky, young lady." He smiles at her, "Right, I've got another Project Scrumpy planning session that's going to require extensive fondling of seedlings, so I'll see you tomorrow."

"You lucky man." Yseult returns his smile, "Thanks for your support."

"Always there, darling." He blows her a blatantly false kiss, "And make sure you nick the last gallusaur steaks. I've never seen what Mike looks like when he cries."


"Where's Pete going?" Mike asks as he approaches with a brace of mugs.

"Oh, just another Project Scrumpy escapade. I think he's so desperate to have a reliable supply of the stuff that he'll do whatever it takes to get hold of it."

"Taste of home, huh?"

"Something like that." She accepts the mug of coffee and smiles, "Thanks, Mike."

"You're welcome." He pauses, "You okay?"

She nods, "I've just had that conversation with Pete. No need to repeat it if you don't want to."

"Don't worry about it. How is he?"

"Struggling. He doesn't say anything, but I think it's getting worse, not better."

"What, you think he might crack up?" Mike asks, his voice concerned.

"Not in so many words; at least, I hope not." She sighs, "I suppose I'm most worried at night - he looks so very tired; he can't be getting much sleep, which makes me wonder if he's having nightmares."

"And you can't get in?"

She nods, her eyes worried.

"Maybe this is just his way of letting you down gently?" Mike asks, tentatively, "Whatever happened, perhaps it's made him rethink things."

"No - I don't think so. The way that he holds me when I'm with him, and his reluctance to let go, doesn't suggest that."

Mike pauses, "How about I give you the security override code?"

"The override?" Yseult stares at him, "You know it?"

"Yeah. I charm it out of Maybright. She keeps me informed of it so we can meet up for off-the-record recreation where people can't see us."

"How long have you been doing that?"

"A couple of years - believe me, she's worth it."

"Does anyone else do that?" she asks, astonished.

"Not that I know of. Of course, she could be a total nympho, but I doubt it. She's very…devoted. Just our little secret."

Slowly, Yseult turns to face him, "So, you've known the override code for the last two years - and she just tells you when it gets changed?"

He nods, "I can tell you, if you like." Then he sees the look on her face; a sense of dawning horror, a realisation that she can't bear to accept, and yet must. Slowly, the smile fades from his lips, "You okay, Max?"

"Oh, my God…it was you, wasn't it? You broke into the research labs and broke the catch on the vivarium. The only other people who would have been able to have all been accounted for…"

Mike stays silent for a few minutes, his expression growing horribly cold as he allows what can only have been a pretence to drop away, "What choice did I have, Max?"

"What are you talking about? You're in a relationship with Kate Maybright…"

"That's just sex. Something to pass the time until that stuck up snob burns you and you realise who you're meant to be with."

"You?" Yseult stares at him, "What do you mean? We're friends - we've been friends for years; I've never seen you any other way."

"Don't give me that. I've been here for you since before we came to this damn place - I've earned your love, and you give it to Captain damn Khaki from nowhere!"

"Are you suggesting that you're somehow entitled to have me because we've been friends for a few years? Where the hell did you get that idea from? I was married!"

"Hell, don't I know it - don't you realise that the day he died was the best day of my life? It meant you were free - but you've been a total tease ever since! Dressing in those tight tops, talking to me like I'm superman and then taking up with that damn scientist? What's he got that I haven't?"

"If you think that about me, then you'd never even be able to comprehend the first thing about what attracted me to Malcolm; and why the hell should I be obliged to tell you?"

"Because you're mine!" he demands, suddenly furious at some perceived insult or other that she cannot fathom, "I've earned you! I'm sick of being in the friend zone - I want out of it, and it's time that I got what I deserve!" Raging, he flings aside the mug he's been carrying, "If you can't see it, then you go sit in your shed and think it over for an hour. See if you've changed your mind!"

He is far larger than she is, far stronger - and his grip on her arm is brutal, "And don't think you can get your darling Commander Taylor to come running!" his free hand snatches at the alert beeper - the converted tags that they've all worn since Graham's accident - and wrenches it from about her neck. Dropping it on the ground, he marches Yseult across the yard to the windowless shed that she uses as an office. Shoving her inside, he slams the door shut, and bars it firmly so that she can't force the door.

"Mike!" She calls through, "For God's sake! Why are you doing this? I've never been interested in you in that way - and I've never given any hint that I might be! Mike!"

"I'll be back in an hour - and I expect you to be thinking the right way when I open that door, Max." His voice is horrible, and then she hears his footsteps retreating.

"Mike? Mike!" She bashes on the door, then shoulders it as hard as she can. No go. Immediately she looks around for something that she can use as a battering ram, or perhaps something to prise and bend away one of the panels that form the walls. He's chosen his time impeccably. No one else is in the main compound - all in their workshops well away from the hideous racket of the forge. Even Pete's gone.

She's on her own.


Still seated on his couch, Malcolm looks up at the clock on a nearby shelf; five more minutes and she'll be here. For one brief hour, he will feel safe - and the horror will recede into the vaguest veneer of normality as he holds her close. If it weren't for Yseult, then he knows that he would have fallen part weeks ago.

The thought of leaving the house still horrifies him. Elisabeth has been obliged to make another house visit, since he looks for any excuse he can manufacture to avoid going to the infirmary. He has no other visitors; but then, he has no other friends. The only friend he had was Robert Stanley - who tried to kill him.

Don't think about it…

His face creased with pain, he looks back up at the clock, and frowns. Five past twelve - she's never late…what's going on? Bemused, he rises from the couch and crosses to the window that overlooks his front veranda. No sign of his rover. No sign of her.

For a moment, the ghastly thought that she's finally lost patience with him and given up rises in his mind, and his legs almost buckle beneath him. No…she wouldn't…she couldn't do that to him…she couldn't

"No." He says, firmly to himself, "Even if she had got fed up, she would tell me. She must be ill."

And then he freezes in fear. If he's going to find out if she's alright, then that means he has to go outside - into that hostile world where people can bind him and bury him alive, deny him water when he's out of his mind with thirst…

Do it, damn you. She needs you.

Forcing his hands to stop shaking, he reaches out for his jacket, dons it, and - for the first time in three weeks - opens his own front door.


Her hands are scraped and grazed, and she has achieved precisely nothing. The shed survived that bad storm last autumn, after all, and it's extremely solid. She wanted it secure - but with the intention of stopping people breaking in. She never imagined that she would have to attempt to break out.

What the hell is wrong with Mike? Has he always been like that and never shown it, or did it emerge when Malcolm came on the scene? His enmity has always been overt - but she thought it was merely because he viewed Malcolm with scorn because he didn't work with his hands. They are, after all, craftspeople; whereas Malcolm is a scientist. Surely he isn't that unreconstructed? She's had good friendships with all the men on her team - none of them seem to believe that this somehow grants them the right to an exclusive relationship with her. With Pete, of course, it's because he's gay - but then Geoff and Graham have wives. The rest of her team she knows well, but has never palled up with to the same extent.

Fair point. I'd rather be the only Gay in the village. Mike's in love alright - though I think it's probably with his biceps…

Pete's always been perceptive of other people's feelings - did he see it? Or did he realise that Mike was nursing an unrequited love and didn't know at whom it was aimed?

Has she done something to lead him on? She dredges through her memory for anything that he might have misconstrued, or misunderstood; but nothing springs to mind. What was all that nonsense about tops? They're not overly tight; though they make it clear that she's a woman - what did he want her to do; wear a baggy sack?

And then she realises: it doesn't matter what she has, or hasn't, done. The problem is Mike's and Mike's alone. If he can't be persuaded to accept he hasn't got a chance with her, then she'll just have to find a way to get past him, and away from the compound. He doesn't have the code to start Malcolm's rover - at least, as far as she knows. Who's to say that the override for vehicles is the same as for doors?

My God…he tried to kill Malcolm. He tried to take away the most precious thing in my life in the hope of replacing it with himself…

Knowing that Mike is willing to stoop to outright murder in order to get what he wants is a monumentally unhelpful thought, as it causes a dreadful rush of fear. No - she can't afford to wilt into panic like some pathetic damsel in distress. If she's going to get out of this, then she must stay calm, and aware of her surroundings…

But what if he uses her imprisonment to go in search of Malcolm? God, he's completely unaware of the danger - he'd have no idea that Mike wants to get him out of the picture. She's got to get out of this shed, by whatever means necessary…

And then she freezes: Footsteps…

"Well?"

It's him.

"What do you want, Mike?" She asks, keeping her tone reasonable. While she doesn't want him to think she's caved, she also doesn't want him to think that she's absolutely refusing him - or he might leave her trapped and go off to kill Malcolm.

"You know what I want. Drop Captain Khaki and take up with me. You won't regret it, Max. He's pathetic - how could he possibly satisfy someone like you? I can do that - so much that you'll be crying for more and wondering why you bothered with him."

Does he see her as a human being? Or just an object to have sex with? How on earth did he hide this attitude from her? Had she known he thought like this, she would never have picked him to come through the portal.

"That's a matter of opinion, Mike."

"Let me prove it."

"I can't do that behind a locked door, can I?" The last thing she wants is for him to come in - the very idea gives her chills of revulsion; not just because of his attitude, but the thought that allowing him into the shed might give him the impression that she's offering her consent. But if he doesn't unbar the door, then she can't get out.

The sound of scrapes and bumps is both welcome, and frightening - though not half as horrible as the sight of him in the doorway, a look of almost childish hope on his face. He really believes she's changed her mind…

Forcing herself to smile, she leans back against the desk, her hands feeling carefully behind her for the only weapon within reach - a solid paperweight made from one of their earliest steel blooms. It's heavy, knobbly - and, if she can swing it hard enough, it'll stun him enough for her to get to the rover.

"That's right." He says, breathily, and she cringes at the sound; God, oh God - does he mean to demand sex here and now? No. Not a chance. Not ever.

Her eyes fixed upon him, she waits as he approaches. He raises his hands, then lowers them, then raises them again, as though shy of her. Closer…just a bit closer…

Mike's huge right hand extends, his intention apparently torn between her cheek and her bust. Then he reaches up to cup her cheek, leaning in for a kiss…

Without hesitation, she swings the paperweight with all her might.

"You filthy bitch!" He catches her arm, and the paperweight drops away with a heavy clatter. He is too large - too strong…too quick.

Then he has hold of her shoulders, shaking her violently, "You've asked for it!" Pressing his entire weight against her, he shoves her back against the desk, forcing his lips onto hers. Revolted, nauseated, she has only one option left. And takes it.

His scream as her knee drives up into his groin is piercing, and he staggers away from her, his hands clasping at the source of his pain. She doesn't stop, doesn't offer a comment. It's the only opportunity she has to escape. There's no time for some smart comment or other.

Snatching at the door, Yseult scrambles through, and runs.


There's no one on the path out to the Sustainable Industries compound, a simple track that, while well lit at night, weaves through uncleared forest that serves to mask the noise of their industry. Alone, shaking, Malcolm forces himself to keep going. Lucas is not going to threaten him; Robert Stanley is not going to jump him…it's alright…it's going to be fine…

His first stop, at Yseult's house, proved fruitless. She wasn't there, so now he makes his trembling way out to her place of work in case she's hurt. It's the only reason he can think of to explain her absence.

Something rustles in the bushes to his right, and he skids to a terrified halt, staring at the shaking leaves. Something's in there…

And again…

And then a cimolodon bolts out across the path in front of him. Nothing more than a primitive mammal…

Move, you coward. Move…

Still trembling with fright, he resumes his journey. She hasn't come - and she never misses a day. She must need him - and he is damned if he's going to abandon her.


The rover is parked up close to the covered workshop, on the other side of the forge; hopefully he hasn't sabotaged it…

The weight of the blow across her shoulders causes her to stagger, and then she is grabbed, violently, "NO!"

"Don't even think about it - if you need me to prove that I can satisfy you better than your stupid scientist, I'll do it here and now!" Mike's voice is trembling with barely controlled fury.

"Let go of me, damn you!" she struggles against him, "I don't want you! I've never wanted you! Get your hands off me!"

Mike hurls her to the ground, where she lands heavily. Immediately, he is on top of her, pinning her to the gravel, "If you think that you can pretend that you don't want me, then it's too late - you've been teasing me from the moment your husband died! Did you take up with that damned scientist to spite me? Did you?"

"Stop it, Mike! Stop!" she hopes that she might break through his anger, his need to overpower her, but instead he slaps her across the face, a brutal blow that shocks her into stillness.

"Oh Christ, you're mine…you're finally mine…" he is burbling now, excitedly. Has he been dreaming of this? How on earth didn't she see it? Has she been wilfully blind? Did he give anything away? She can't remember now, "come on, let's do this." Even as his free hand is fumbling at her garments, he bends down towards her face, aiming to force a kiss as she turns her head to the side to avoid him.

"NO!" she screams, as loudly as she can, "MIKE! STOP! PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T!" Volume is her only ally now. Surely someone will hear her given the the forge is not operating.

He needs both hands to unfasten buttons, but with one pinning her wrists, he has no choice but to keep trying with the other even as he chases her mouth with his, trying to claim that unwanted kiss. With no other weapon at her command, Yseult puts everything into her screams. He can't hold her mouth shut and strip her…

"Shut UP!" he rears up, and slaps her again, even more violently, "You've been asking for this for years! Don't even try to keep teasing me: that just makes you a whore!"

She is dizzy, slightly stunned by the second blow, and she feels a damp coldness as the breeze hits the blood emerging from the corner of her mouth. Not wishing to waste the advantage he has been given, Mike releases her wrists; both hands now free to grasp at the fabric of her garments…

And then he cries out, sharply, falling slightly to the side.

"Get your bloody hands off her!"

Forcing herself to gather her wits, Yseult looks up to see Malcolm standing over them, a heavy lump of wood in his hands. Mike's weight has shifted just enough for her to move, and she scrambles backwards, freeing herself from his bulk.

"Has he hurt you?" Malcolm asks, hurling the wood aside and hurrying to crouch beside her.

"No - you came in time…I'm okay…" shocked, she sits up, trembling with a cold fear, and staring at her entirely unexpected assailant as he slumps on the ground.

"Here." Malcolm shrugs out of his coat in response to her shivering, "Put this on."

Shaking, she wraps herself up in the garment. It's warm from his body heat, and smells of his cologne…no…don't cry. Not here. Not now. The rover…we need to get away from here…cry later…

"Oh, here he is. The knight in khaki armour."

They turn at the sound of the vicious, sarcastic tone. So much for a stunning blow: Mike's back on his feet.


His expression set, his eyes angry, Malcolm stands in front of Yseult, offering what little protection he can in the face of a man who is at least twice his weight, "Get back from her. She's made her objection clear - if you try again, then I swear I'll…"

"You'll what?" Mike interrupts, scornfully, "Go back and hide in your house? Cower in panic because something moved?"

Malcolm frowns, "What do you mean?"

"He's got the command override." Yseult clambers to her feet behind him, fastening his coat, almost as though she is sending a signal to Mike that his scrutiny is resolutely unwelcome, "He used it to get into the labs and smash the catch on the vivarium. He's the one who let the scorpion out."

"And paid you a few visits, Malcolm." Mike grins, horribly, "I scared the hell out of you, didn't I? 'You're dead! Leave me alone!' Who did you think it was that left that message? What's your dirty little secret?"

"You?" Malcolm stares at him in horror, "You were in my house? Why?"

"You took something from me. Something of mine. When the scorpion didn't work, I was wondering what else to do; and then you went OTG - and disappeared, and I thought I wouldn't have to worry about you ever again. How's that for history repeating itself? First Niall, and then you. But then Taylor and Shannon got you back! When you got out of the infirmary, everyone knew you were a mess: I thought you'd benefit from some gas-lighting. Sooner or later you'd've cracked up completely - I just wanted to speed it up."

"What did you do, Mike?" Yseult asks, coldly.

"Things in my house were moving around," Malcolm whispers, faintly, "small things; things that I couldn't remember if I'd moved them myself or not - and then there was a message written on the inside of a cupboard door; but it disappeared. I thought I was going mad…but I wasn't. It was him…he was breaking into the house…"

"That was easy – write it, clean it, watch you freak out. Like I said - you took something of mine. I wanted it back."

"What? Me?" Yseult demands.

"You're mine. I wanted you the moment I saw you; even with that husband. You've been mine from the moment you were widowed: you just haven't accepted it yet."

"She's not yours." Malcolm declares, his voice stronger now, "She isn't mine, either. She's hers. She's with me because she chose to be - I don't possess her any more than you do."

"Screw you, you patronising bastard. You don't deserve her. You've spoiled it. All of it - she would've been mine until you turned up. If you're gone, then she'll realise that she's meant to be with me."

"I'm not gone."

"I can do something about that." Mike moves horribly fast, grasping two handfuls of Malcolm's shirt and wrenching him forward, "She got over Niall. She'll get over you - particularly once she's screwed me and realised what she's been missing all these years."

For the first time in weeks, Malcolm fights back. He couldn't fight Robert once he was bound, nor could he fight Lucas for the same reason. Lashing out, he manages to catch Mike across the jaw, but the huge man merely laughs at him, and pulls at his shirt again, forcing him round to face the entrance to the forge, "What do you sound like when you scream?" he asks, "I mean, really scream? Shall we find out?" Grinning, he rips the front of Malcolm's shirt apart, sending buttons scattering in all directions, and forces it over his shoulders, halfway down his arms.

His strength is insurmountable, and Malcolm is helpless to stop Mike from dragging him into the confined space of the forge, where the furnace still burns. The bellows may not be in operation, but the heart of the charcoal is still glowing white, the tongs abandoned over it…glowing a dull red…

"Oh God…" Malcolm tries to pull away, only to be released, and then shoved back against the wall of the shelter, a thick, meaty hand enclosing his throat. Both his hands claw at that painful grip, but are no more effective than if he was brushing the man's wrist with feathers.

Reaching out with his free hand, Mike hefts up the tongs, "What do you think?" he asks, conversationally, "Belly or chest? Shall we ask Max to choose?"

His eyes are fixed on that dull red glow, wide with horror. He can't begin to imagine how much the burn will hurt - he no longer remembers the pain of the shock prod that the two Sixers used on him. Pain doesn't linger in the memory as anything other than a remembrance of it happening. He retains that awareness that it hurt - but not the sensation…

"Put those tongs down, Mike - or I swear to God I'll smash in your skull."

The two men turn to look at Yseult. Her eyes deadly, her expression as set as Malcolm's had been when he stood in front of her to protect her, she hefts the heaviest of the hammers.

"Fine. Don't choose. I'll do both." Mike abandons the tongs, as ordered, and then forces Malcolm forward, pushing him towards the furnace itself.

"Oh God!" The heat rising from it is intense against his bared skin, and he can't push back - he isn't strong enough. He wouldn't have been even if three weeks with only one meal a day hadn't weakened him…he can't stop…he's going to burn alive…

The weight pressing against his back is appalling, the heat rising from the charcoal scorching his dangling shirt; he can almost feel the hairs on his chest singeing…it's pointless, but he can't keep himself from reflexively pleading with Mike to stop as he is forced, with sadistic slowness, closer and closer to the burning charcoal.

But then the pressure is gone, and he tumbles back from the edge of the coals as his assailant topples, still gripping his shoulders. Shocked, breathing fast, he scrambles away, then turns to see Mike on the deck; Yseult standing over him, the hammer gripped tightly in her hands, "I told him…" she says, weakly, "I told him what I'd do…he didn't listen." Slowly, she lowers her hands, and lets the weapon fall to the ground with a solid thud. She is fighting to keep her composure in the face of her unwanted act of violence. No matter what Mike has done, smashing his head with a hammer would never have been what she would have wanted to do to end it.

Painfully, Malcolm gets back to his feet, shrugging his scorched shirt back over his shoulders as he approaches her, "Come on. Let's get out of here - we need to alert Commander Taylor."

Yseult nods, and raises her tag, retrieved from where Mike had dropped it, "He's coming." Then she looks up at him, her eyes anguished, "Hold me, Malcolm. Just, please…hold me."

He doesn't hesitate, "I think you beat me to it. I was going to say the exact same thing."

"I never thought he would ever do something like that…never…"

"Max." He shifts slightly so that they're face to face, "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

She shakes her head, and clings closer to him, resting her cheek against his bared chest, "No. You hit him before he could. He didn't even touch me - he was too busy looking."

"That was an intrusion too much, Max. If he's survived that blow, then he needs to face Commander Taylor for it. The only person who has exclusive rights to your body is you."

"You get access privileges." She smiles a rather watery smile at him, as he guides her back out into the open air, "How did you know I was in trouble?"

"You didn't come." He says, simply.

"So you came looking for me."

He nods, "I'll always come for you."

"That's a horrible cliché; but I'll accept it on the grounds that we've both just had to fight for your life."

"I'm glad you felt I was worth it." He says, very quietly, "After the way I've treated you the last few weeks."

"That doesn't matter. Not right now - we can deal with it once we're home. Can we just get out of here?"

A ghastly growling snarl behind them freezes them in their tracks, and they turn to see Mike, his eyes glazed, blood dribbling down his face from a head wound.

"The hell you can go. Do you think this over? I'm just getting started!"


He's standing beside the scrap metal pile; the one that Yseult warned Zoe to keep away from. Reaching amongst the rusting shards, he retrieves a long, viciously pointed iron stake abandoned to rot with the other flawed pieces, "Damn you, Max. You could've had me, and you want that?" he glares at Malcolm with livid contempt, "If you think I'll stand for that, then you're an even stupider bitch than I took you for! Do you think you can do that to me? Lead me on and then wave a pathetic jerk-ass in my face - who can't even go out of his house without getting scared?"

Frightened, but angry, Yseult glares at him, "I have never done anything to lead you on! Never! Anything you think I've done is in your own twisted imagination! I thought you were my friend! And you tried to rape me! That's what it would've been, Mike - rape! I would never have willingly submitted to you!"

"You can think that if you want - but he can't have you. You're mine - and if you won't accept that, then you can take the damn consequences! Either I have you, or no one does!"

As his voice rises to a shriek, he raises the pole, point forward, and surges toward them.

Without hesitation, Malcolm grasps Yseult, and turns his back to Mike: placing himself in front of that advancing weapon. Elisabeth is a brilliant surgeon…he can trust her to do her best for him; and, if not, then at least Max will live…

The air is rent with the blast of a sonic pistol at maximum setting. Malcolm is facing the wrong way, but he hears Yseult scream in horror, and slowly turns.

Mike's expression is one of shock, and confusion. He stares at his improvised weapon in bemused dismay as it drops from his now weakening grip. Then he shifts his gaze to the other sharp point. The one that is protruding from his chest…having impaled him as he was blasted back onto the scrap pile. Then he coughs, spurting blood out of his mouth, his body weight slowly forcing him ever further downwards. A few more horrible, rattling breaths, and then he is silent.

Slowly, Malcolm and Yseult turn together, to see Taylor standing nearby, freshly emerged from a hastily commandeered rover. His eyes are narrowed with anger, the sonic pistol now lowered.

"Thank God for those emergency beepers." He says, simply.


Sitting on his couch, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand, Malcolm waits quietly for Yseult to emerge from his bedroom. It was a simple matter for him to change his shirt - but she wants to rid herself of any evidence of Mike's assault on her, and is in the shower. Their interview with Commander Taylor was short, as he was far too courteous of their circumstances to demand that they traipse up to the Command Centre for a full on investigation. Explanations can wait; it's not as though they were the instigators of the scene he encountered after Yseult activated her emergency alarm.

When she appears, she has replaced her dust-covered top with one from the small stock of garments that she left there when she was regularly staying the night, and comes to sit with him as he extends his arm around her, "I'm sorry."

"What for? What did you do? I can't see anything that you did wrong."

"I should've realised Mike was obsessed with me. I should've…"

"How?" Malcolm asks her, softly, "What signals did he give off? And I don't mean ones that you have to look for and interpret - I mean overt ones that are a dead giveaway."

She sits for a moment, turning the thought over in her mind, "None that I can think of apart from his regularly insulting you. I just assumed he was being like Pete - even though Pete's gay. And Pete stopped doing it once we were an item." Then she turns to him, "How hard was it for you to come and look for me?"

Now it's his turn to sit in silence, thinking of how to respond, "I think it was probably one of the hardest things I've ever done." He admits, after a long pause, "I spent most of the journey thinking that I was going to be abducted and dragged off to a pit somewhere, or out into the desert again. A cimolodon scared the hell out of me by rustling around in the bushes - I thought it was Lucas, or Rob."

Even though he now has an explanation for the horrible fears that Lucas was haunting him, there are still demons that he has no wish to raise, and that dreadful, insurmountable lie that he told her…suddenly his eyes are full of tears.

"What is it?" Yseult whispers, softly, "It's okay - you can tell me. You can tell me anything - you know you can."

"I lied to you." He moans, miserably, "I told you that thinking of you kept me going when I was in the camp…but I was lying."

"What do you mean?"

"I tried with everything I had not to think about you - because it hurt too much…I couldn't stand that I might not see you again; we were all dying there. The water was running out, and there was no sign of anyone coming for me. I was scared out of my wits - and I couldn't bring myself to think of you because it just made it all worse…" and then the tears begin to flow freely, "Rob tried to bury me alive, Max. He locked me in a box and buried it in a bloody great hole. I only got out because Lucas found him and wanted me for his own reasons…if he hadn't, he would've left me in the ground to die…I was terrified. I thought those two bloody Sixers were frightening, but they were nothing in comparison to that…"

Her arms tighten around him, and he clings to her, "I've been having horrible nightmares - Lucas has me pegged out on the ground and I get covered in scorpions that start ripping the flesh off my bones…every single bloody night…and I have a knife in the bedroom in case the little bastards come out of my dream…oh God, Max, I can't do this…I can't…not anymore…"

He clutches closer to her and sobs; painful, bitter paroxysms of anguish that have been dammed up for long enough, and can no longer be held back. Yseult says nothing, just letting him cry as her own tears fall in sympathy with his pain. What, after all, can she say that will help him? At least, however, he's letting it go this time. He couldn't when the Sixers tortured him - but she swore when she found out about that that he would never be forced to conceal pain ever again. She is keeping her promise.

Eventually, he calms again, "I'm sorry…"

"For being human?" She asks, softly, "For feeling pain?

"Not so much that," he murmurs, "For behaving like I'm the only one who's feeling it. Mike tried to hurt you - and if I hadn't come looking then there's no saying what he might've done." He tightens his arms about her, and she sinks into his embrace, "It's all very well for me to sit here and blubber like an idiot - but it's not just about me, is it? Not now."

Yseult says nothing, but she shakes her head, and then shivers, "If you hadn't come, I think he might've killed me once he'd finished. There was no way I would've submitted willingly to him - and I would've gone to Elisabeth and Jim to report him."

"I think hearing you scream officially ranks as the worst thing that's ever happened to me." Malcolm says, quietly, "I heard you, and I knew you were in danger - and even what Rob did to me can't touch that realisation that I might lose you. When I saw what Mike was doing…"

"I can't help wondering if there was something I could've done to stop it from happening." Yseult whispers, tearfully, "That I should've realised what he was thinking and found some way to get out of it."

"Yseult," he looks at her, his eyes intent upon her, his use of her name an extra level of sincerity, "You did nothing wrong. Don't let him pull you into the trap of blaming yourself for his behaviour. You wouldn't let me blame myself for what happened to Lucy when that building came down - and I was no more responsible for that than you were for Mike's attack on you. He had no right; no right whatsoever, to do what he tried to do."

"He turned me into an object." She adds, "Something that existed solely for his gratification."

"I meant what I said to him." Malcolm reminds her, "You didn't belong to him. You don't belong to me. You belong to you. I know that sounds like one of those godawful 'new man' clichés, but I was lucky - I had strong role models when I was growing up who made it very clear to me that I didn't have any rights when it came to a woman's body. I haven't forgotten that. If anyone even hinted at that to him, he didn't take any notice."

She rests her head on his chest, then lifts it again and looks about, "It's got dark. I hadn't noticed."

"Neither had I." He extricates himself from her arms and switches on the light, "Do you want to stay tonight?" he tries to be casual, but he can't disguise his rather desperate hope that she will.

She looks at him, her eyes alive with tears, "God, yes - please. I don't want to be alone."

"Nor do I." He admits as he joins her on the couch again. Without hesitation, she sinks back into his embrace, entwining the fingers of her left hand with his. Then she shifts slightly, and looks up at him, "Would it be terribly forward of me to remind you how much I love you?"

"Remind away." He smiles at her, the horrible weight of his untruth to her dropping away in the light of his admission, taking his inhibitions with it as they share a long, loving kiss.