Claire stood, transfixed, staring into a pair of silver eyes inches from her own. The pupils were mere pinpricks. Her own face stared back at her, reflected in their surface.
She knew his face better than her own, but it wasn't Darien looking back at her anymore.
Her hand slowly crept towards her pocket, almost against her will. She'd slipped a syringe and some vials of counteragent in there a few minutes ago, what seemed like hours now. The counteragent, she knew now, would be useless at this point. But the needles, the long, large-bore needles, they might still be put to use.
"What do you want?" she asked Darien, trying to keep his attention on her face, her own eyes. She didn't bother trying to keep the fear and desperation out of her voice.
The face that was no longer her friend's grinned at her. His right hand moved from the pillar behind her, reaching up to caress her cheek.
"I want a lot of things, 'Keep'." His fingers ran gently through her hair. She kept expecting him to grab hold of her hair and pull, but his touch remained gentle, the threat implied rather than overt.
Her fingers touched the plastic cover of a needle. She carefully worked it into her hand, applied pressure to break the seal on the cap. It was so hard to uncover the sharp metal with only one hand!
Manipulation. She could take control of the situation, like she had so many times before, divert his attention, control him, even in Quicksilver Madness. A very dangerous game.
Claire forced herself to smile. "I remember what you wanted last time," she said, shifting her weight towards him. If violence was the alternative....it wasn't much of a choice.
There. She could feel the plastic give. She shifted the needle around in her hand, pushed against the hub with her thumb to work it loose from the cap.
The silver eyes gave nothing away, but the face around them was easy to read. No inhibitions, no polite social constraints.
"True," he said, his hand sliding down the ends of her hair and onto her blouse. "But then, last time, you weren't afraid of me. Do you remember that?" His hand pressed against her chest, just as she'd placed it, up on that catwalk. "This time, I think it's good old-fashioned fear making your heart race, Keep...."
The needle was free. She held the sharp metal so that it protruded between her index and middle fingers and brought her hand free, fast as she could, in a solid punch to the face.
He reacted to the movement, bringing his other arm up. His face was spared, but she left a long, deep scratch on his forearm.
Not giving him time to react, she ducked away where his arm no longer fenced her in. She ran, fast and hard, not daring to look back.
She still saw no hint of an exit, but the cement columns had to come to an end somewhere. If luck was with her, she'd hit a wall near an exit. If not, well, she wouldn't worry about that now.
She couldn't hear his pursuit, only her own ragged breath. Her own feet hitting the floor.
She could see a wall ahead. There was a mark where a sign had once pointed the way to the exit. She couldn't see to either side, the pillars blocked her view. She headed straight towards the wall at full speed. She would have to veer to one side or the other soon, but she couldn't afford to guess wrong.
Just as she was about to collide with green-painted cement, a door came into view to the right. She swerved towards it. A glass window revealed stairs behind the door, stairs leading up. Up and out.
She slammed into it, grappled with the handle. The latch caught. The door started to open.
And stopped.
For a moment, she expected to see quicksilver falling away from him, prepared to fight him to get it open. Then she spotted the chain, visible through the few inches the door had opened. A heavy chain, padlocked closed. Running from the handle on the other side to the railing of the stairway.
A laugh, from behind her. Cold and pitiless. Pleased with himself.
That was why he hadn't caught her as she ran. He'd known he didn't need to.
She pressed her back against the wall, scanning the garage around her. Nothing but bare cement, with fluorescent lights too high above to reach.
He appeared from among the pillars. He hadn't bothered to quicksilver.
He came right up to her. There was something in his posture that let her know, in no uncertain way, that he was much closer to violence now. She couldn't pin it down, but it was there nonetheless.
His hand caught her wrist as she tried to bring the fist with the needle around again. Caught it and dug in hard, forcing the tendons. The needle fell to the concrete with a tink that echoed through the deserted parking garage.
His other hand reached into her lab coat. He pulled out the syringe. He held it between their faces, gazing at it speculatively.
"It's a pity I don't have any Beta-C," he told her. There was a needle already fitted to the syringe, ready for use, its cap still in place. He ran the smooth plastic along her cheek. "But, you know....maybe we don't need Beta-C."
He released her wrist. She tried to move to one side, and he moved faster, getting ahead of her. She dodged back, but he was faster, blocking her again.
The threat of violence was still implied in every move.
She held still, watching him, and he affected nonchalance, as if the little dance had never happened.
He pulled back the plunger of the syringe, pulled until it slid out of the barrel. He held the open end upwards.
She thought at first there was something in his other hand. He brought it up, cupped as if filled with water, but his hand was empty. Then, as she watched, quicksilver began to well up from the pores of his palm, forming a little silver pool.
He tilted his hand, and the raw quicksilver flowed down into the barrel, into the syringe.
He cocked an eyebrow. "What do you think, Keep? How much will it take?" The level of quicksilver continued to rise. When it neared the top, he slid the plunger back in. A little quicksilver spilled out from the needle, falling to the floor. It surely made little black craters in the floor, but neither of them could take their eyes from the syringe long enough to see.
The quicksilver, contained inside the syringe, kept its silvery appearance, its liquid form.
His forearm, the one she'd scratched, came up to press against her chest, pinning her to the wall.
She could fight. And lose. Sane, she could take Darien. She had the training, the practice. And the fear to drive it. But this Darien was nothing like the man she knew. He wasn't even like the red-eyed version she'd tackled before, usually with Bobby's help.
This Darien would hurt her, wouldn't hesitate to do permanent damage. Might even kill her. He was through playing games. No more chase, no more hide and seek. He'd lost interest in that.
If she fought, she might die here, or be crippled and left who knows how long.
The alternative....
Madness. Mania. A loss of control so profound she had no idea what she herself might be capable of. That much quicksilver might even push *her* into stage five.
But surely it would wear off eventually. She had no gland pumping a fresh supply into her system. Her position when that happened couldn't possibly be worse than it was now.
Could she keep some control, she wondered? Keep herself from doing anything too terrible? She was sure Darien wouldn't kill until he hit stage five.
Stage five. Where he was now. With, not murder, but cold death, in his eyes.
He brought the needle up to her throat.
She could fight. Or she could hold still and let it happen.
She told herself she hadn't actually made her decision. That she could still fight. That she was waiting for her moment.
She kept telling herself that right up until the needle slid into her jugular. Then she knew it was too late. The choice wasn't hers any more.
She closed her eyes and waited. The cold rush of madness. In a way, it was a relief.
When her eyes opened again, they were flushed a deep crimson.
She knew his face better than her own, but it wasn't Darien looking back at her anymore.
Her hand slowly crept towards her pocket, almost against her will. She'd slipped a syringe and some vials of counteragent in there a few minutes ago, what seemed like hours now. The counteragent, she knew now, would be useless at this point. But the needles, the long, large-bore needles, they might still be put to use.
"What do you want?" she asked Darien, trying to keep his attention on her face, her own eyes. She didn't bother trying to keep the fear and desperation out of her voice.
The face that was no longer her friend's grinned at her. His right hand moved from the pillar behind her, reaching up to caress her cheek.
"I want a lot of things, 'Keep'." His fingers ran gently through her hair. She kept expecting him to grab hold of her hair and pull, but his touch remained gentle, the threat implied rather than overt.
Her fingers touched the plastic cover of a needle. She carefully worked it into her hand, applied pressure to break the seal on the cap. It was so hard to uncover the sharp metal with only one hand!
Manipulation. She could take control of the situation, like she had so many times before, divert his attention, control him, even in Quicksilver Madness. A very dangerous game.
Claire forced herself to smile. "I remember what you wanted last time," she said, shifting her weight towards him. If violence was the alternative....it wasn't much of a choice.
There. She could feel the plastic give. She shifted the needle around in her hand, pushed against the hub with her thumb to work it loose from the cap.
The silver eyes gave nothing away, but the face around them was easy to read. No inhibitions, no polite social constraints.
"True," he said, his hand sliding down the ends of her hair and onto her blouse. "But then, last time, you weren't afraid of me. Do you remember that?" His hand pressed against her chest, just as she'd placed it, up on that catwalk. "This time, I think it's good old-fashioned fear making your heart race, Keep...."
The needle was free. She held the sharp metal so that it protruded between her index and middle fingers and brought her hand free, fast as she could, in a solid punch to the face.
He reacted to the movement, bringing his other arm up. His face was spared, but she left a long, deep scratch on his forearm.
Not giving him time to react, she ducked away where his arm no longer fenced her in. She ran, fast and hard, not daring to look back.
She still saw no hint of an exit, but the cement columns had to come to an end somewhere. If luck was with her, she'd hit a wall near an exit. If not, well, she wouldn't worry about that now.
She couldn't hear his pursuit, only her own ragged breath. Her own feet hitting the floor.
She could see a wall ahead. There was a mark where a sign had once pointed the way to the exit. She couldn't see to either side, the pillars blocked her view. She headed straight towards the wall at full speed. She would have to veer to one side or the other soon, but she couldn't afford to guess wrong.
Just as she was about to collide with green-painted cement, a door came into view to the right. She swerved towards it. A glass window revealed stairs behind the door, stairs leading up. Up and out.
She slammed into it, grappled with the handle. The latch caught. The door started to open.
And stopped.
For a moment, she expected to see quicksilver falling away from him, prepared to fight him to get it open. Then she spotted the chain, visible through the few inches the door had opened. A heavy chain, padlocked closed. Running from the handle on the other side to the railing of the stairway.
A laugh, from behind her. Cold and pitiless. Pleased with himself.
That was why he hadn't caught her as she ran. He'd known he didn't need to.
She pressed her back against the wall, scanning the garage around her. Nothing but bare cement, with fluorescent lights too high above to reach.
He appeared from among the pillars. He hadn't bothered to quicksilver.
He came right up to her. There was something in his posture that let her know, in no uncertain way, that he was much closer to violence now. She couldn't pin it down, but it was there nonetheless.
His hand caught her wrist as she tried to bring the fist with the needle around again. Caught it and dug in hard, forcing the tendons. The needle fell to the concrete with a tink that echoed through the deserted parking garage.
His other hand reached into her lab coat. He pulled out the syringe. He held it between their faces, gazing at it speculatively.
"It's a pity I don't have any Beta-C," he told her. There was a needle already fitted to the syringe, ready for use, its cap still in place. He ran the smooth plastic along her cheek. "But, you know....maybe we don't need Beta-C."
He released her wrist. She tried to move to one side, and he moved faster, getting ahead of her. She dodged back, but he was faster, blocking her again.
The threat of violence was still implied in every move.
She held still, watching him, and he affected nonchalance, as if the little dance had never happened.
He pulled back the plunger of the syringe, pulled until it slid out of the barrel. He held the open end upwards.
She thought at first there was something in his other hand. He brought it up, cupped as if filled with water, but his hand was empty. Then, as she watched, quicksilver began to well up from the pores of his palm, forming a little silver pool.
He tilted his hand, and the raw quicksilver flowed down into the barrel, into the syringe.
He cocked an eyebrow. "What do you think, Keep? How much will it take?" The level of quicksilver continued to rise. When it neared the top, he slid the plunger back in. A little quicksilver spilled out from the needle, falling to the floor. It surely made little black craters in the floor, but neither of them could take their eyes from the syringe long enough to see.
The quicksilver, contained inside the syringe, kept its silvery appearance, its liquid form.
His forearm, the one she'd scratched, came up to press against her chest, pinning her to the wall.
She could fight. And lose. Sane, she could take Darien. She had the training, the practice. And the fear to drive it. But this Darien was nothing like the man she knew. He wasn't even like the red-eyed version she'd tackled before, usually with Bobby's help.
This Darien would hurt her, wouldn't hesitate to do permanent damage. Might even kill her. He was through playing games. No more chase, no more hide and seek. He'd lost interest in that.
If she fought, she might die here, or be crippled and left who knows how long.
The alternative....
Madness. Mania. A loss of control so profound she had no idea what she herself might be capable of. That much quicksilver might even push *her* into stage five.
But surely it would wear off eventually. She had no gland pumping a fresh supply into her system. Her position when that happened couldn't possibly be worse than it was now.
Could she keep some control, she wondered? Keep herself from doing anything too terrible? She was sure Darien wouldn't kill until he hit stage five.
Stage five. Where he was now. With, not murder, but cold death, in his eyes.
He brought the needle up to her throat.
She could fight. Or she could hold still and let it happen.
She told herself she hadn't actually made her decision. That she could still fight. That she was waiting for her moment.
She kept telling herself that right up until the needle slid into her jugular. Then she knew it was too late. The choice wasn't hers any more.
She closed her eyes and waited. The cold rush of madness. In a way, it was a relief.
When her eyes opened again, they were flushed a deep crimson.